Burnt Toast
by Signs of Dusk
Summary: Peeta Mellark, the boy with the bread, becomes victor of the 73rd Hunger Games. Life isn't the same for the once simple baker, and finds that the world is far more complicated than he originally thought. Between the Hunger Games and a rebellion that is waiting for a spark to catch, the boy with the bread has to learn if he can handle the heat without getting consumed by the flames
1. Prologue: What I've Done

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. The amazing Suzanne Collins does.**

Prologue

Numbly I find myself disembarking from the train, feeling both drained and oddly polished. My wounds are gone, both old and new scars have vanished, and the calluses I've accumulated through the years from baking are erased. And yet, despite it all, I still feel dirty. I guess that's to be expected, given the fact that I've killed.

There's no point in trying to rationalize the situation either. You can claim that you only snapped that kid's neck because they were going to snap yours first, but that doesn't really help when they haunt you in your dreams. It doesn't change that fact that in order for you to get home, twenty-three lives had to be snuffed out for that to happen.

I've, more or less, accepted that, in spite of my desire to not morph into something that's not even me, the Capitol has changed me. I'm not that nameless boy you may have found yourself greeting on occasion at District 12's bakery. My name is Peeta Mellark, and I won the 73rd Hunger Games at fifteen-years-old. Twenty-three children had to die just so I could live. And not a minute goes by where I don't hate myself for it.

The rough pat on the back that comes across as more of a shove nearly knocks me off balance, and if it isn't for the cane I lean onto, I surely would've fallen. I look back to see Haymitch, already drunk and surly, come tumbling out behind me, stumbling with a swagger that leaves me wondering how he can possibly manage to walk. But's that Haymitch Abernathy for you.

"Good luck." He grunts in a voice that slurs, leaving me to question if I even heard him right.

Good luck? Good luck for what? As I ask myself this, I turn my eyes away from him and am immediately swept in by my family. They're standing only a couple of feet away from me, but it feels as though we're leagues apart. None of them move when it's clear that my attention is on them, leaving it to me to limp over to them.

"Welcome home, son." My father manages say in greeting as I come to them, the kind smile he often reserves for me on his face. I can't help but smile back, brought to ease by the warmth that is presented to me. I'm so caught up in the kindness that I almost don't see it.

It's something that I can only call 'The Look'. I've been getting it ever since I stepped out of the Arena as a victor.

I can see the telltale signs of wariness, and perhaps, maybe even a dash of fear in the eyes that I've inherited.

It's in all of their eyes, to varying extents. My two brothers, much bigger and slightly older than I am, do well in their attempts of covering it up. But the way they glance around anxiously tells me that despite their size, they know I'm very much capable of killing them. The thought makes me inwardly reel, feeling aghast with myself.

I persevere through my own chaotic thoughts and feelings to reply pleasantly, "It's great to be back."

It goes unspoken amongst us that we never thought I would ever be back on this very station not in a wooden coffin.

My mother, I must give her a bit of credit, for she sets aside her usual grievance for me to give me a hug. Mind you, it's an awkward affair and makes a handshake seem far more intimate, but I appreciate the gesture nevertheless.

No more words are exchanged, and we promptly usher ourselves from the empty station. It's difficult treading for me, given my prosthetic left leg. But I manage to somehow hobble behind my family at a decent pace, they in turn taking slower steps just so that I don't get left behind. I'm both grateful, and irked.

We pass through the market, occasionally receiving words of praise and congratulations. But more often than not people avoid us. None of us are oblivious to the way people change their course when they spot us coming, or advert their eyes when they can't possibly take a different route. My family doesn't say anything about the people's reserved behavior, but I can tell it's bothering them. Perturbing them.

Everyone knows. Everyone can't possibly not know. You'd have to live under a rock to not know that the Mellark's youngest boy is a crowned murderer.

I bury my pain, conceal the hurt at the injustice of it all, and continue on unaffected. This must be what Haymitch had been referring to. In a place like District 12, a victor is a rarity. Just look at Haymitch, the only living victor of our District in nearly twenty-five years. There was only one victor before him, a woman who no one seems capable of remembering how she won. But it's not like it matters. What matters is that the people of the District have trouble wrapping their heads around one of their own being capable of murder. And now that I come back as District 12's third ever victor, it's thrown everyone for a loop.

Who would've though the baker's son would've made it out of the Arena? No one, apparently. Not even me.

My family comes to a stop in front the family bakery, and an apparent dilemma arises. I'm confused by their sudden pause, thinking that perhaps that they want to snag a few things before settling into my house in Victors' Village. But they look amongst each other nervously, their glances telling me otherwise.

"We're going to stay here, Peeta." My father tells me, the only one with the courage to do so. He admirably tries feeding me an excuse that sounds reasonable enough. "You know how busy it can get, and it's always troublesome to heat up and cool down the ovens. We'll stop by with dinner later though, don't you worry."

I accept this easily, turning to my brothers with a hopeful look on my face. "What about you guys? Want to check out the new place?"

My eldest brother, Bannock, pats my shoulder amiably. "Can't, baby brother. Ma and Pa need all the help they can get, and Amy will throw a fit if I come home late."

Amy is Bannock's wife, the sweetest woman I've ever met. Somehow I doubt my sister-in-law will put up much protest if my brother comes home late or not, but I let it slide.

Instead of protesting, I turn to Rye, my seventeen-year-old brother who could've volunteered for my sake during the Reaping, but chose not to. I resent him even more for it. We've never gotten along very well, but I'm willing to look past it in favor of company. I don't want to be left alone. That's when I can't pretend I can't hear my victims' screams.

I look to him with the utmost hope, silently pleading for him to come along. Instead, he looks away and rubs the back of his neck warily.

"Sorry," he mumbles, "I've got some, uh, chores to do."

His refusal, as weak as it is, devastates me. I can only nod, not trusting my voice. Gripping my cane with white knuckle tightness, I nod my farewell and continue along alone. The remaining journey is incredibly arduous, given my lame leg, and it takes me longer to get there than it should.

On the way I cross paths with a girl from the Seam, the very one I've been in love with since I was five-years-old. Katniss Everdeen.

Our eyes meet and a strange look passes through her. Her sister is with her, the girl jabbering away freely. The young Prim doesn't seem aware of my presence, too swept up by her sister's to take notice. It's obvious to everyone that the girl idolizes her.

I smile in spite of myself, giving a weak wave. Katniss looks away quickly, returning her attention to Prim. I falter before letting my hand drop back to my side, feeling weary in spirit. Even Katniss won't look at me; not that she ever did to begin with, but it still hurts.

Sighing, I push her out of my mind as I take a turn and find myself in the designated area of where the victors are housed. I'm greeted by twelve large houses, most of them empty but appearing as if they're brand new. Except for one, which, by the stench alone, I believe belongs to Haymitch. It reeks of white liquor, even from fifty feet away.

The door of the first house on the left opens as I'm about to pass it, a woman stepping out. She stops just outside the doorway, beckoning me over calmly. She's young, maybe in her twenties, with tired hazel eyes and thick dark hair. Her smile seems strained, as if she's had to practice keeping it on for unmentionable periods of time.

I immediately know what she is. A person who committed treason and thereby punished by having their tongues cut out. An Avox.

I wonder what her crime was. I could ask her, but it's not like she could verbally reply or would even dare writing it down. I'll have to be content with not knowing.

I move over to her in my agonizingly slow pace, taking forever to step up the wooden steps. The Avox woman comes to my aid at the last step, tentatively taking my free arm to support me. It makes things easier, but not by much.

"Thank you." I tell her as she leads me across the threshold and up a flight of stairs to my personal room.

She nods, flashing me her forced smile.

With her help, I make it to my new bedroom in minutes. She promptly leaves after giving me a bow. I don't bother wasting my breath in trying to make her stay. She'll delicately refuse the request with a strained smile and shake of her head. Avox's don't keep lonely boys company.

I survey the room, finding it to be posh and lavished with expensive furniture. It looks vaguely similar to the one I had back at the Training Center. This puts me on edge as I take a seat on the bed too big for just one person. Leaning my cane against the side, I rest my elbows on my knees and stare miserably at my hands. Hands that used to only knead bread now know what it feels like to kill. To snuff out a life no more innocent then yours.

A strangled cry rises in my throat as I'm reminded of what I've done. I'm about to cradle my face in these very hands when I remember that these hands are dangerous. I jerk my head back, glaring at the appendages, wishing I could just escape them. But that's impractical, as well as pointless. I'm already back at the District. There's no fancy Capitol doctor to fix me up if I were to cut off my hands.

Frowning, I try distracting my mind with something else, but every time I look at the room, I'm reminded of the Hunger Games. The room is too familiar. I can't sleep here. I'll sooner sleep outside then in this very room.

I try to rise, but the fatigue of traveling is too much for my body and its disrupted sense of balance. I sink back down, this time taking notice of the thing I had stuffed in my back pocket before I left Capitol.

One of my hands thoughtlessly digs into the pocket and pulls out a small trinket that I had almost forgotten.

A gold pin rests on my palm, glittering from the beams of sunlight filtering in through the windows. A mockingjay sits in midflight in the center of the ring, doing as its name may suggest. Mocking me with her death, reminding me how I couldn't save her.

Unable to stand looking at it, I curl my fingers tightly around it, clenching my hand shut against the pain. The pain is a welcome distraction against the reality of the situation. I hold the pendent so tightly that my hand begins to shake from the strain. The sharp edges dig into my palm, breaking skin and drawing blood. A few crimson droplets fall on my pants, but I ignore it.

My name is Peeta Mellark. I won the 73rd Hunger Games at fifteen-years-old. Twenty-three children had to die so that I could live. And not a minute goes by where I don't hate myself for it.

My life as a victor begins here.

* * *

**Author's Note: I never thought I'd ever write a fanfiction on a book before. I don't know why, but the idea of doing so made me feel uncomfortable. If I can make up a story about an already published book, what's stopping me from writing my own? That's a question that'll have to be answered at a later time.**

**I've seen a few stories where Katniss is Peeta's mentor, but haven't seen many where Peeta is Katniss's mentor. That's where the idea for this story came from. I haven't decided if I'm going to break this into separate stories, because I intend to go through all three books. But for now, I think it'll stay as one story.**

**If you have any suggestions, comments, concerns, please leave a review. I'd love to see what you think.**

**I'm going to have an updating schedule, where I update every Monday (or at least try to).**


	2. Suffer the Masses

Ch. 1

Nearly six months have passed. It's easier to walk now, eliminating the necessity of a cane. Life as a victor is simple enough, if you look passed the Capitol's sporadic visits during the first few weeks. Interviews were held, my prep team came and went numerous times, and now all that's left for me is the Victory Tour until the next Hunger Games makes me a mentor. I loathe celebrating my brutal victory with just District 12 alone. The other districts, however, will be a little easier to tolerate it, but not by much. The Capitol will be the worst.

My family, even when I went out of my way to insist that they move in with me, refused to live in my new house. My father put me down gently, but my mother reacted in a way that I should have expected.

The tension had finally gotten to her, and she shrieked at me to quit pestering them about it. She came close to slapping me after she proclaimed my presence at the bakery bad for business and I refused to leave. The only thing stopping her from hitting me across the face with whatever utensil she had in hand was fear. Fear of what I would do or how I would react to the abuse.

Bannock escorted me out when I wouldn't budge. The heavy hand he placed on my shoulder as he guided me out served as a warning. It meant that if I should decide to stop, there was going to be some trouble. It tore at my heart that my own family was wary of my presence like everyone else, but as usual, I kept my pain to myself.

No one wanted to be around Peeta Mellark.

Feeling rejected, I spent most of my time in the company of my Avox maid, Myrina. She usually stuck to a wall and stood there, with her eyes lowered demurely to the floor, waiting for me to give her an order. I never do, which leaves her standing with her back to the wall for hours after she's completed her usual chores.

Myrina prepared my meals for me whenever my family didn't visit, which was more often than not. To pass the time, I baked whatever I could with the oven I had and took up painting as my hobby. Between the two, I was kept fairly busy. But it only kept me occupied for so long until I ran out of both paint and canvases and had pretty much filled my house with an abundance of breads, pastries, and sweets.

I gave a bit of what I've baked to Myrina, who tried declining the offer at first until I manage to win her over and she started accepting some muffins. I don't know if she ever eats them, but I guess it's the thought that counts.

A large portion of my goods are offered to Haymitch, but often remain in the basket I leave at his doorstep untouched. I don't even know why I bother. It's such a waste.

As of recent, I've decided to give away my goods to the people of the Seam. It was, however, a risky gamble on my part. I'm certain the Peacekeepers won't be too thrilled of me just giving away free food. They would rather have the children sign for a tesserae than see a victor handing out food. And I have a feeling that the Seam won't be very accepting of my honest gesture.

But I have to try. If they won't take my donation out right, then I'll have to strike up some kind of bargain. Whatever it takes, I will make some good use of my status as a victor of District 12.

I wait until night, hoping that by then that the activity of the Peacekeepers has lessen and no one will take outright notice of me. I stuff a couple of bags with my items, picking between the freshest from what is starting to go stale. When I'm satisfied that I have enough, I tell Myrina that I won't be long and promptly leave my house for the Seam.

The air is cooler now than it was this morning, filled with a quiet that is otherworldly. District 12 usually gets this quiet during the winter months, families not taking a chance of leaving their house. Most people, especially those from the Seam, don't have adequate clothing for this weather, possessing maybe only meager jackets and thermal underwear, or possibly whatever garment mothers can knit.

It makes me feel even more unwelcome when I come totting my goods in a jacket and sweater, boots on my feet, gloves on my hands, a scarf around my neck, and a hat on my head. I know no one is watching me from outside, but from inside the houses I pass, I notice the flickers of curtains as curious denizens observe what I do.

The frigidity unsettles my prosthetic a bit, but it's bearable, and I'm still able to walk regularly without the aid of a cane now. Doctors from the Capitol had informed me when I first got my new leg that it would act up to the drop in temperature very much like a person with arthritis would. I was advised to not overdo it, but I'm not exactly sure of what their definition of overdoing it is, so for now I try ignoring that piece of instruction and go about my days as usual.

Face red from the cutting wind and left leg stiffening by the minute, I stop at the first house I see. Knocking on the door, I wait a few seconds before I'm greeted by a grizzle-faced man with dark hair, olive skin, and grey eyes. The man looks to be in his thirties, face weary and short beard already holding hints of grey hair.

Behind him hovers his wife at the table, two small children eating something that I know has to be meager and hardly filling. I feel my heart lurch as the older boy hands his younger sister his remaining bit of cheese and bread, and I can't help but think that this exact scene carries out often between Katniss and her sister Prim.

The man clears his throat, reminding me of my purpose and reason for being at his doorstep. Giving an easy smile, I begin by saying, "I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you and your family."

"What do you want?" he cuts in, crossing his arms and eyeing me warily.

I rifle through my bag, pulling out two loaves of hearty bread. I notice the man's eyes widen, but his stern expression doesn't change. "I made too much at home for just one person to eat, and I figured that it would be better if I gave it away than have it go to waste."

My word choice offends the man, his face flaring with outrage. "We aren't some charity case for a boy like you, who feels he's obligated to do so, to take pity on."

His wife stands, staring at her husband sternly. "Clay…" she warns him, drawing his name out reproachfully. She's willing to look past anything just so that her children can get fed.

"I meant no offense," I placate, hoping my honesty rings true. "I just felt that it would be better to offer some of my goods to you, free of any charge or debt, because it's the right thing to do."

He scowls, momentarily staring at me until he leans forward and peers out the doorway, as if looking for something. It takes me a while to realize that he's looking for Peacekeepers, thinking that this might be a way to lure out families and punish them for taking what they believe to be free food. The notion angers me; it's wrong that innocent people have to be wary of generosity.

He sighs, directing his gaze back to me. His wife then comes over and shoves him to the side, gratefully taking the two loaves into her hands. She smiles at me, making me smile in turn.

"Thank you, Mr. Mellark."

"It's no problem." It really isn't. A bit of joy has returned to my heart, her appreciation making me feel elated over my minor accomplishment.

Her husband grumbles out at thanks as well, but glares at me as he walks back in after his wife. I assume it's because he's upset that a boy can better provide for his family than he can. I hope that I'm wrong; I'm not trying to outdo husbands, I'm trying to help people.

My following attempts are met with varying results. Some people outright refuse, shutting the door in my face as I explain my reason for appearing on their doorstep. Others are like Clay, reluctant to accept until prompting from their spouse or sibling is made. On rare occasions, most being the elderly, they are profusely grateful for the gesture. They'd give me a gapped smile, eyes watering with tears, blessing me for my generosity.

Those moments make my own eyes water, because it tells me what I'm doing is right. That there may still be salvation for me yet.

An old woman many know as Greasy Sae is probably the only exception to this. She opens her door, listens to what I have to say, grumbles something unintelligent, takes my offering, and scuttles back to the warmth of her hearth without another word. Initially, I'm left baffled, because it takes no persuasion on my part to make her take the bread. But then I'm amused, chuckling to myself as I move on to the next house.

The breads, pastries, and muffins I haul are traded occasionally for something in turn, to ease the conscience of some of the families. As my baked goods dwindle, they are replaced by trinkets, fabric, herbs, and even some soap. I try convincing them that they don't have to give me anything, but they in turn insist that they must, refusing to take my offering otherwise.

I'm starting to run low on my goods, and I realize with a pang that I won't get to make it to all the houses. Even if I were to head back to my home to gather some more, by the time I made it back, people would already be settling in for the night. And plus my leg is getting more and more stiff, the joints starting to have actual difficulty bending and making the possibility of walking quite the challenge.

I persevere though, determined not to stop until I've given away all the baked goods I carry on me. I'm panting by the time I make it to the next house, knocking and leaning more of my weight on my right leg as I wait to be greeted.

I'm startled when it's Gale Hawthorne who answers the door.

He looks just about as surprised as I do. He hides it well though, his Seam grey eyes quickly narrowing suspiciously, his jaw setting tightly. We stare back at each other, and I'm left momentarily speechless. Here before me stands my competition, the boy who also has his eyes on Katniss Everdeen.

He isn't aware of my own feelings however, probably not even familiar with whom I am outside of being a victor and the baker's youngest son. I've noticed the way he looks at her, eyes smoldering with passion. I'm amazed Katniss hasn't picked up on it by now. If she can't see that, then she can't possibly be aware that I exist. But I'm determined to wake up the courage to approach her and change that, one of these days, willing to be nothing more than her friend if she'll allow me to be.

And if, in the end, she should choose Gale over me, then I can say I'm fine with that. Most probably hurt, and a bit envious, but fine.

I just want to see her happy for once. And if Gale is the one to give her that happiness, then so be it.

After all, Gale is her best friend. I'm just the boy with the bread.

"What brings you here at a time like this, Mellark?" The question was not an unfriendly one, but was definitely a guarded one.

Jarred from my somber musings, I have to blink a few times and endure the warmth of my ears heating up in embarrassment before I could speak again. I shift about nervously, almost falling when I forget about how stiff my left leg is. I catch myself before that can happen, resting a hand on the banister of the porch for support.

"Are you alright?" asked Gale reluctantly, unable to hide a tinge of concern.

"Yeah," I chuckle nervously, embarrassed by my mishap. "The cold isn't too good on my leg."

Gale looks between me and then the inside of his home. His mother is sitting with her other children, mouthing something to her eldest son. I see his brow angle forward slightly, contemplating whatever he was told when he turns back to me.

"Would you like to come in, maybe have some tea?"

The invitation throws me through a loop. As much as I would like to have a moment to catch my breath, I wouldn't feel comfortable in Gale's home. I don't know him really well, and I've only seen him come in with Katniss whenever she came to sell my father one of her squirrels. And let's not forget that the older boy is in love with the lithe huntress as well.

"Thanks, but I only came to see if I could give away some of my baked goods. I have some rolls and pastries if your family wish to have them."

His lips purse as he scrutinizes my claim. He lets out a heavy exhale seconds later, jaw set tight as he walks back into the house. When he comes back out, he's holding a small pail in his hands, wild berries filling it.

"This is all I'll give you for the bread." He states with finality, determined that we traded and assuming that I'll be offended by the collateral.

I smile though, handing him a cluster of pastries and rolls as I took the pail into my hands. On closer look I see that they're blackberries. I've only had a few once, when I was younger and things had been simple.

"Nice doing business with you," I remark wryly, feeling smug with myself.

My father handled the trades with Gale and Katniss. I usually just watched the exchange from afar, desiring to be a part of the conversation. Now that it was I who had for once traded with the steely and passionate Gale Hawthorne, I felt proud.

This moment is punctuated when Gale says back to me as I turn to leave, "Hey, Mellark."

I pause and look back, to show that he's got my attention.

Gale licks his lips, shifting on his feet as he mustered up the strength to continue. "You did what you had to do," he eventually says, looking at me with stern eyes. "When you were in there, you did what was necessary to survive."

I inwardly cringe at the comment.

I'm not proud of what I did. Children were killed, some at my own hands. One _with_ my hands. Nothing I do will ever atone for what I did. This simple act of giving to the needy won't clear me of my title as victor—a killer crowned as a hero in the eyes of the Capitol.

It doesn't change the fact that a piece of you dies in the Arena, with the other tributes.

"Yeah," I sigh, unable to muster up a cheerful disposition. "I did."

I leave after that, trying to bury feelings of guilt. I have enough left for one last house. I hope that the last door I knock on belongs to Katniss.

I'm left disappointed when the last house I go to turns out to be a middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes and the stench of alcohol coming off of him in waves. His overall unkempt appearance reminds me of Haymitch. I don't know this man personally, or as well as I know Haymitch—which honestly isn't _that_ well—but I suspect that his reasons for drinking are rooted in grief, maybe even as far as the Hunger Games. Had he lost a child or a sibling to the whims of the Capitol's sick sense of punishment for the past?

I'll never know, and honestly don't want to. I hand him what is left, not even bothering to give an elaborate explanation and instead insuring him that my donation was all in good will and that I wished him a good night. I leave without seeing if he accepts the food or not, my heart racing with anxiety.

Trudging through the snow, I can't keep myself from flinching slightly at the sound distant caterwauls, the shrieks reminiscent of the ones that belonged to a few mutts that the Gamemakers had set loose in my Games. Horrid memories are pulled to the surface, burning into my mind and reminding me of traumas that can't be seen.

I rush as fast as my leg will allow me back to my house, struggling to outrun things that are impossible to escape.

* * *

**Author's Note: No Katniss in this chapter. I was going to put her in, but I felt it was too much for Peeta to suddenly come across Gale, then moments later greet Katniss. So I took out that part. **

**Thank you all who reviewed, favorited, and followed this story! It makes me happy to see it enjoyed so early on.**

**People should be aware that I do have plans of updating on every possible Monday I can. I've been writing the chapters ahead of each other, so I think the schedule to update will stay intact if I can keep this up.**

**And for those wondering about Peeta's Games and how he got his prosthetic leg, it will be steadily explained. Just be patient, and eventually all the pieces will be revealed. **

**Please review!**


	3. Behind Blue Eyes

Ch. 2

That night, I'm plagued by nightmares that take the form of memories that have been too distorted to be considered real. But regardless, they sure feel like they are.

_I'm running through an endless golden field of tall wheat, my breaths coming in quick bursts. My sides are cramping up from the exertion, but I dare not slow my pace. Someone, or something, is hunting me._

_ I'm alone with my fear, trembling uncontrollably as I run for my life. There's nowhere to hide, nowhere to seek proper refuge. All that's protecting me, really, is the wheat. Even so, that doesn't do much, my lumbering movements too easily trampling the thin grain. I trip on my own feet on varying occasions, stumbling clumsily yet never quite falling._

_ I run for what feels like forever, ghastly howls echoing not too far behind me. I struggle to pick up the pace, willing my feet to go faster. Panic grips me and I suddenly trip. It's as if one of my legs has been removed, my right step not followed by my left. Falling forward, I roll onto my back to look at my legs and to my horror notice that the left one is missing. _

_My breath catches sharply, my brain struggling to comprehend the absence of my left appendage without a hint of blood._

_ All around me, people who shouldn't be here in the Games are running past me. There's Haymitch and my parents, Bannock and Rye, the District escort Effie Trinket and my stylist Portia, Prim and the younger Hawthorne boys, and finally, Katniss._

_ She's sprinting towards me, face set with a hint of desperation that puts me on edge. A shadow looms ominously over her, growing larger and large as she draws closer to me. I struggle to stand and realize quickly that that's impossible. So I try shouting to her, to warn her of the imminent threat. But my voice is stuck in my throat, leaving me to gap my mouth helplessly._

_ The shadow has grown to an impossible size, darkening her unaware form. I'm starting to panic, my heart palpitating painfully fast within my chest. The blood is pounding in my ears, making it difficult to hear anything else. I can't help but stare transfixed as a large, feline-like creature leaps into the air over our heads, landing a few feet behind me. _

_ I scramble away as fast as I can, fearing the possibility of being ripped to pieces from behind. The cat has jutting canine teeth and countless quills protruding from along its spine. Its paws are huge, equipped with claws that curl menacingly to a sharp point. The creature is frothing at the mouth and its eyes are mad with rage._

_Our gazes meet and I know I'm going to die. All I can do is shield my eyes and hope that it's over quick. The sound of its paws pounding like thunder are a distant ambience to my deafen hearing._

_ A handful of seconds past until I realize that the creature hasn't descended on me like it should've. Lowering my arm from my face, I follow the large cat as it goes bounding towards a girl skidding to a halt that once had dark hair and grey eyes but now possessed blonde hair and blue eyes. _

_It's a Merchant girl from District 12, my tribute-mate._

_Madge Undersee._

_ She's frozen in fear as she stares back at the feline that's racing towards her. My panic overwhelms and consumes me the longer I watch, unable to do a thing. This does not stop me from trying however, and I'm soon crawling as fast as I can, my fingers clawing anxiously into the soil. I scream, but all that comes out is spittle. _

_ Madge just stands there wide-eyed, a thin, red slit stretching slowly across her throat. She coughs and gags, blood streaming from her mouth and neck. Her hands go to clutch at the area as the big cat pounces. I try one last time to rouse her into fleeing, opening my mouth wide and straining to have my voice heard. _

_I manage only a weak gasp, my efforts clearly wasted. Red-faced and tensed, I watch as the mutt knocks her down, sinking its teeth into her flesh. Madge flails around wildly, her voice echoing back my own cry, matching the very tone and pitch. _

_I feel my face scrunch up and soon tears are rolling down my cheeks. Madge's voice twists to the sound of my sobbing, her body by now ravished by bite and claw marks. She's an indiscernible mess of flesh and fabric, hardly recognizable at this point as being the mayor of District Twelve's daughter._

_It feels like an eternity until the feline wanders away, bounding into the golden field to find more prey. Her blue eyes stare blankly at me, dangling out of their sockets. They're almost as blue as my own. _

_I cover my face with my hands to escape her deathly gaze. My body trembles as I continue to weep, defeat heavy in my heart. It isn't until I hear a couple of pairs of footsteps do I draw my hands away, eyes widening with alarm as I stare up at a twisted version of myself from the Games._

_My grime covered doppelganger surveys the scene with eyes bloodshot with hysteria. I'm struck with horror over how primitive I appear. Did I ever appear that far gone? Did I sink that low, to the point where I wasn't even myself? Was I…was I this mutt that stands before me?_

_His hand clenches around the handle of the tomahawk he wields, anger and desperation flooding his features. A shout escapes his lips as he charges at me, face drawn in a menacing snarl that seems unnatural to me._

_Gale emerges into the makeshift clearing just as my copy descends upon me, strolling casually with his hands in the pockets of his pants and sympathetic gleam in his eyes._

"_You do what you have to do," he says, "When you're in here, you do what is necessary to survive."_

_His words echo back continuously as the blade of the tomahawk cuts into my neck and severs my head from its place between my shoulders._

I wake with a start, finding myself on the floor instead of the couch that has served as my bed ever since I moved into this large house. A sheen of sweat coats my skin, making me feel hot and sticky. The blanket that once covered my body is now tangled around my legs, the pillows strewn about on the floor a few yards away from where I lay.

It's difficult to breathe and my heart is beating so fast that it hurts. My body shivers from the lingering wisps of fear that still fill me. I feel sick to my stomach thinking about this latest nightmare, and I am soon gripped by a feeling that compels me to rush over to the desk drawer set up against a bookshelf over in the study I'm in the process of converting into a proper studio.

I dig through the drawers, searching frantically for one item in particular. The longer it takes me, the more I begin to hyperventilate. It has to be here; there's nowhere else it could be.

Just when my vision begins to dim and it feels as though I'm about to pass out, I find what I'm looking for.

My hand closes over the mockingjay pin, the cold metal soothing against my sweaty palm. I relax and let at a breathy sigh. It's a little easier to breathe now, and my heart isn't beating a mile-a-minute.

I don't know why, but this pin has the power to calm me, even though it serves as a heavy reminder of her death. It's all that's left of the girl I couldn't save. Call me a masochist, but I need to hold onto the pain and the guilt. I don't deserve a moment of reprieve from this internal torment that I face. Nothing will ever justify my actions in the Arena. I get that. No amount of goodwill or simple reassurance will ever truly wipe clean my conscience.

I'm also starting to understand why the people of my district are wary of my presence. To them, I actually _was_ a mutt, a mutt of the boy with the bread.

Just thinking about it leads me to remembering my nightmare, and how vicious I had appeared. My stomach starts to churn uncomfortably, nausea making me light-headed. I can still remember the distinctly metallic smell of blood, my imaginings tricking my nose into thinking that I can actually smell it right now.

I don't make it to the kitchen sink in time. I'm forced to heave my partially digested dinner upon the immaculate counter instead. All of what I ate last night comes up—which happened to be some kind of chicken and rice dish that had been quite good when it was going down. Coming up…not so much.

When I've emptied my stomach and have nothing left, I slide down to the floor, unable to remain standing. The shivering and cold sweats have returned with a vengeance. I wonder if Myrina heard, if she's waiting around some corner watching me get sick all over the kitchen countertop. Regardless, my unfortunate mess won't get cleaned up until I leave. I would do it myself, but I'm afraid that the sight of it will just make me dry heave.

Averting my gaze, I shakily stumble back to the couch, collecting my pillow and blanket. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before setting down on my makeshift bed, not at all uncomfortable after months of having slept on it. Maybe one of these days I'll muster up the will to rearrange my room to where it doesn't look too much like the one in the Training Center, and actually sleep in an actual bed, but for now I'm content enough.

I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, starting to wish I had gotten a glass of water to wash away the acidic taste of bile that still burned my throat whenever I swallowed. My body feels exhausted but my mind is very much awake. I won't be able to sleep, not after a nightmare like that.

From then on I occupy myself by staring at the pin I hold in between my thumb and index finger, trying to muster up the will necessary to get up and get a glass of water.

* * *

In the beginning, my nightmares had been almost unbearable. They had felt too real to be just my subconscious conjuring up memories that my innermost fears and torments twisted into hellish dreams. When I had called the doctors at the Capitol a few weeks after I had returned to District 12 to tell them of my difficulties of sleeping, they had easily diagnosed me with PTSD. Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.

It didn't surprise me very much how quickly the Capitol doctors were able to spot the disorder. Most victors suffered from this or some other psychological trauma to varying extents and it seemed to get more and more intense the further the district. District 1 victors probably slept like babies in comparison to those in, say, District 10.

I had been prescribed some antidepressants to help with my sleep. Initially though, I had been wary of such medication. Something that came from the Capitol was the last thing I wanted at the time. It was hard to trust something that came from the place that turned you into a murderer.

My feelings towards this way of thinking only lasted for so long until things got too bad, to the point where certain occurrences that were just barely reminiscent of the week and a half spent in the Games were making me hyper-vigilant of my surroundings.

Rain had been my biggest enemy.

* * *

I continue to paint and bake to occupy myself. Each day brings the Victory Tour closer, and I dread its eventual arrival. I know, of course, that since I've made painting my talent, I'll be expected to bring a few pieces to show off. Most of my artwork is portrayals from my Games: things that happened, things I thought happened, and specific individuals.

There's the girl from 7 with wild russet hair and accusing hazel eyes, hands curled around small hatchets. The girl from 9 that cowers in a bed of wheat, staring off at some unforeseen threat. The boy from 5 desperately fighting a losing battle with the girl from 2 during the bloodbath. And then there's the boy from 1 glaring daggers back at me, a devilish sneer on his grimy face, a spiked mace coated in dried blood slung over one shoulder.

I stare at the finished product, unable to still my hand from touching my left thigh, the image stirring up phantom pain. My first few paintings of him were destroyed, thrown into the fire one night when I was unable to handle his taunting gaze. As time went on, it became easier to tolerate the eyes that followed me wherever I went, to accept the fact that the people I painted were dead.

Painting is my catharsis. Without it, I think I would've dabbled into alcohol by now. That's how Haymitch deals with his own demons and though the thought of forgetting my problems seems tempting, I don't deserve to forget. Like I've said, my actions will never be justified. There's no better way of keeping my sins alive then by capturing them in artwork.

It makes my nightmares a bit better to cope with when I draw them out as well. Life in general is easier when I just paint. It takes up most of my time, making the quiet days spent alone slip along in one long, continuous blur.

At night, however, I continue to give away my baked goods to the good people of the Seam. Each night I'm given new clarification to the horrors these unfortunate people have to face. Houses that are barely standing, children huddled together for warmth, animals that are thin and emaciated, coal dust coating everything in a thick, black layer and making it just a bit difficult to breathe.

I don't know how people can live in these kind of conditions. I also don't know how a run of the mill place like this still exists. These are just a few of my musings that I have no intention of ever having answered.

As time goes on, people become more trusting of my intentions, greeting me with hesitant smiles and heartfelt blessings. The overwhelming gratitude sometimes makes me red-faced, which I try blaming the cold for. I still try refusing to accept exchanges, but easily give in without much protest. And though I have a bit of trouble admitting it, Gale and I have sunken into a steady routine where I give him bread and he gives me berries. We say nothing much between each other, usually a few casual nods as we make our transaction.

There's still one person in particular that's having trouble accepting my presence in her 'territory'.

The first time I stopped at her house, it was the second night of my giveaways/trades and had been completely accidental. At first it had thrilled me when it was Katniss who had answered the door, surprise coming through her beautiful grey eyes before she had the chance to take on a more neutral expression. I smiled, unable to help myself.

"Hi…" I greeted, inwardly cringing with how lame I sounded. What a way to leave an impression, Mellark.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, fidgeting slightly.

I showed her a loaf of bread, this one baked with a bit of cheese in the center. She instantly stiffened, eyes widening almost unperceptively. It was the same look she had on back at the Reaping when my name was called.

I don't understand what such a look would mean. All I know is that it has something to do with me.

Her expression of startlement eventually transformed into a scowl, her eyes narrowing warily. "I don't need that," she insisted a little too harshly, avoiding my gaze.

"Are you sure?" I asked, not wanting to give up after her initial refusal.

She proved her point by shutting the door in my face.

Ever since then I make a point of stopping by her house around the same time every night. I know it bugs her when she opens the door, acting like she's expecting someone else only to find that it's only me. These short encounters that start and end the same way may be trivial to most, especially to Katniss, but they amuse me.

She's used all the tricks in the book to get me to stop coming by. She tries—and fails, might I add—politely declining. She tries yelling, which is much more her forte. She's even now refusing to answer the door, not even allowing her sister to greet me when it became clear that Prim couldn't refuse after the first few times.

I wonder what she'll resort to this time. I have half-a-mind to think she'll start spewing halfhearted threats. But that doesn't deter me; far from it in fact. Katniss doesn't understand the affect she has on people. She doesn't understand the affect she has on _me._

Katniss Everdeen is a breath of fresh air that I can't get enough of. Her attempts of driving me away only draw me back.

As I'm walking up to her door, she surprises me by opening it before I have the chance to knock. She crosses her arms and takes a solid stance, a look of resolve on her face. She looks so alluring at the moment that I fight the wide grin that wants to come in favor of an innocent and subdued smile.

"This needs to stop," she declares with finality.

I only smile, not put off by her statement. "Stop what exactly? If you mean this stubborn refusal of yours to accept a simple loaf of bread, then I couldn't agree more."

She puffs up, pouting slightly. She looks so cute when she's upset, but I can't really dwell much on that little fact when I realize that my playfully joking tone is coming across to her as being sarcastic.

"That's not what I mean!" she huffs, scowling back at me as I frown. "Why can't you see that I don't want your stupid bread?"

I can't say that that doesn't hurt.

"Look," I begin as calmly as possible. "I'm not doing you any special favors by coming here. In fact, if you aren't already aware, I've been giving handouts to the other people who live here for a few weeks now. I'm not targeting you specifically like you may think I am. I only stop by as often as I do just in case there's just one day where you weren't able to catch anything and were in need of something to eat. I'd hate to see you in the same predicament you were in four years ago."

She immediately looks uncomfortable, confliction overwhelming her features as her hostility deflates.

It seems as though, like me, she hasn't forgotten about that night not so long ago when I gave her some bread that I had purposely burnt just so that her and her family could have something to eat. I'm surprised, to be honest.

I try to use this to my favor, meekly mumbling, "Wouldn't you like to have some bread that wasn't burnt?"

She looks at her feet, exhaling a sigh slowly. She mutters something under her breath, something that I can't decipher. When she finally looks up at my face, her expression is keenly neutral. "You're going to get in trouble for doing this."

"The same can be said about the poaching you and Gale do. But does that ever stop you for doing what's necessary or right?" I point out, giving a small smile when her scowl instantly returns.

"I don't think it's the same. You bake because you can; we hunt because we have to."

My smile slips away again and I begin to wonder if Katniss Everdeen has any sense of the word 'tact' and its meaning.

Ever patient with this spitfire of a girl, I explain it to her as best as I can. "I spend my time baking just because it gives me something to do. I may not need it to the extent that your families need you two to hunt, but I do need it all the same. Without it…" I trail off, not quite sure what I would do if I couldn't bake. Probably spend far too much time reminiscing about the Games, maybe become a recluse. Just thinking about the possibilities makes me shudder.

Katniss adopts a quieter tone as she adds, "I don't understand how you can still be you after what you went through in the Games."

I'm not the same, Katniss. Far from it in fact.

Rather than say that, I focus in on a small detail that she may not have been aware of giving. Katniss Everdeen knows me, Peeta Mellark. I don't know to what extent, or how much, but just that simple fact has me floored. She knows I exist! She knew I existed!

I want to grin like a lovesick idiot at this tiny revelation. But I don't.

Instead, I smile at her softly as I pull out a loaf of fresh bread with cheese baked in the middle from my bag and gently push it into her hands, curling my fingers over hers to make sure she has a hold of it. She doesn't have time to protest when I retract my hands from hers. It took everything in me to let go.

"Take it. I promise to never bother you again by stopping by every night if you do."

She's conflicted again, torn by an inward dilemma that I'm unaware of. "I can't—"

"Please," I cut her off, unable to keep out how desperate I feel. "Just this once."

Her eyes study my own for what feels like an eternity until she finally gives a small nod. "Just this once," she repeats before wagging a finger at me. "But no more. If I want bread, I'll take my business with your father, not with you. Understood?"

"Of course!" I nod my head back at her enthusiastically, earning a generous eye roll.

She lingers at the door, not knowing what to say next. To spare her the trouble, I wave goodbye and continue my rounds with a smile on my face and a spring in my step.

My smile grows into a full out grin when I hear the sound of her door closing a handful of seconds later. This interaction to anyone may seem insignificant, but to me, it means progress. It means I'm a little bit closer to being a part of Katniss Everdeen's life.

* * *

**Author's Note: This took me a little longer to write. But no worries, I'm still updating on Mondays like I've mentioned.**

**So we've got a few hints of what Peeta's Games were like. I know quite a few of you were wondering about it. Feel free to speculate! Eventually most of it will come to light (the important parts). **

**I'm sorry if Peeta seems a tad OOC to you. I figured he'd be one to burden himself with his problems and think of himself unworthy of a life that has him forget about what he did. And if he is OOC to you, then please bear with it. His character dynamic is meant to grow and develop as the story goes on. So he won't always be this, shall we say, angsty.**

**And to wrap this note up, I have to say a big thank you to all those who reviewed, favorite, and alert this story. It makes me happy really! I hope this much appreciation continues! So please keep it coming and if you can, review~**


	4. Bittersweet Symphony

Ch. 3

For a change in pace, I visit the bakery.

I know that an unexpected visit will upset my mother, but I'm willing to look past her personal views of me in favor of visiting my family after a few weeks of being cooped up in my house. If I don't take charge of this, it's likely my family will slowly start to remove themselves from my life. We may not have been the closest family in all of Panem, but I'm not a fool who doesn't take notice when the dinner visits start to grow few and far between.

A small smile pulls the corners of my lips up as I hear the distinct toll of the bell rigged at the door as I enter. Inside, the bakery is empty, a fact that I am grateful for. Bannock looks up from his place behind the counter and his face lights up with recognition.

"Peeta!" he greets me warmly. "Long time, no see, baby brother. How's the good life been treating yah?"

"Fair enough…" I try not let morose into my voice over such an innocently posed question, instead easing into a gracious grin. Bannock never means to wound me further with these simple queries, he just doesn't understand. "I get all the time in the world to do absolutely nothing. It's great for the first few hours until you realize that you've just accomplished a week's worth of work."

I lean onto the counter against the display rack and watch as Bannock moves to the ovens in the back. He chuckles warmly, the sound vaguely reminiscent to that of our father's.

"I'm sure it's not that bad, all things considering." He looks over his shoulder to add good-naturedly. "Words been getting around that a certain merchant boy has been giving out free handouts to the folk of the Seam." A conspiratorial smirk spreads across his face, and I know that he knows.

My easy expression crumbles a bit as I frown.

I can't help but feel guilty, because my actions could possibly be driving away some of their business, as small as the Seam's impact may be in the grand scheme of things. Not many citizens who resided in the Seam could buy much on their meager wages, and usually bread wasn't their number one commodity of purchase. But the few that could were as valuable a customer as those from the merchant part of the district. My father made certain of that.

The first think that I can dare to ask is: "Does mom know?"

Bannock gives a barking laugh, one so full of mirth and humor that I can't help but smile a little, even though I know I shouldn't. My question hadn't been meant to be funny.

"Lord, Peeta," he wheezes as he struggles to reign in his breath. "I think you'd know if Ma ever found out about who's been giving away, as she puts it, 'precious dough'. Trust me. She'd make her displeasure known right quick."

Oh I know alright. If my mother ever learned of what I've been doing for over a month, she'd throw quite the fit. Maybe get so riled up that she resorted to physical abuse. Even if I could easily put a stop to her violence, I don't think I'll ever have the _real_ strength necessary to defy her. I could never, _ever_, go against my mother in such a way.

I then come to notice that the bakery is auspiciously free of our parents. "Speaking of which, where is mom? Or dad for that matter?"

"They just went to do a few errands. We're running a bit low on cinnamon, eggs, and wheat. But don't worry, they'll be back soon enough."

Just then, Rye comes lumbering down the flight of stairs that lead up to the living quarters of the shop, his pace slowing when his eyes met with mine.

"What are you doing here?" he asks brusquely, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

I swallow thickly, feeling a rise of malice. In all these months after the Games, my brother Rye hasn't once made an effort to amend what has already been a dysfunctional relationship. In fact, he's made it even worse, acting much brasher whenever I happen to be around.

He can't shoulder all the blame though, for I haven't put forth the effort to reconnect either. We're both too stubborn and a bit prideful to repair the rift that grows wider and wider with each year that passes.

I can't say for certain why Rye harbors such unfounded rancor against me, but I do believe it is connected to a vein of jealousy. For what, and why, I do not know.

For once, I do not submit to the challenge I see in my brother's eyes, pushing off the counter to meet him face forward. I square my shoulders and cross my arms, satisfied to note that we are just about the same size in spite of the two-year age difference.

"What does it matter?" I ask. "I have as much reason to be here as you do. I am a Mellark after all, and I do believe that the sign over the shop says 'Mellark Bakery'."

He frowns, almost scowls, not impressed by my retort. "Mom warned you not to come to the shop unannounced like this."

"It's not like I'm ever invited over!" I bite back a humorless chuckle. "This is still my home. Being a victor doesn't change that. I shouldn't have to be treated like an outsider like this, Rye."

"Then you should've thought about that before it got into your head that you were going to win!" he shouts. "Keep you and your filthy conscience away from this family."

I freeze, and for a moment, the anger in me dissipates into shock. Rye has hit a rather sensitive nerve, we both know it. His words, too cruel for me to even listen to, continue on in a heated rush.

"She could've won, you know. She made it to the top eight, but then you just had to go and do something stupid!" He's livid at this point, spewing things that I can't quite make sense as to how they apply to what he was saying prior. I don't even know who he's specifically talking about!

I can't formulate a reply that isn't fuelled with anger, can't create an eloquent response that'll persuade him into thinking that I'd deserved winning the Hunger Games. Truth is, I hadn't deserved to win. I was strong, yes, and some may argue resourceful, but I wasn't necessarily the horse people were eager to bet on. The odds were simply in my favor that'd I win, nothing more.

I was a nobody who was forced into becoming a somebody. You would think that that would reap with bountiful benefits, and to some extent it does, but not in the ways that are truly important to a person. Just look at the situation I'm in now: the relationship I have with my family—more specifically with Rye—is falling apart.

My lack of response sends Rye over the edge, and he takes a hasty swing at me. Instantly my mind goes into overdrive, and before I've come to realize it, I've got my older brother in a chokehold before the blow can land.

"Peeta!" Bannock hollers as he rushes from behind the counter, his voice a distant hum to my dazed mind.

Rye gasps and elbows me repeatedly in the stomach. I hardly notice until Bannock forcefully pushes us apart, making an effort to keep Rye from retaliating.

"That's enough, you two!" he reprimands, hoisting Rye by the collar of his shirt and keeping him as far away from me as possible. He doesn't dare touch me. This frightens me more than I think it should.

To make matters worse, our parents choose this moment to return from shopping. They're speaking in hushed tones when they come to notice predicament: Bannock holding back Rye while I'm sprawled on the floor watching my brothers with a stricken look on my face. It doesn't take either of them long to put some of the pieces together.

"What's going on!?" our mother demands with a shrill voice. Her eyes move to appraise us, lingering the longest on me. I know immediately that the blame will be once again forced upon my shoulders. "_You!_" she hisses, jabbing a finger towards me. "What did you do?"

I'm offended by the constant insinuations that I'm always the one starting these quarrels. It is not as though I always intend to come into conflict with Rye whenever we meet, it just happens that they play out that way. It's usually Rye who instigates it, but our mother has a peculiar habit of overlooking that distinct fact.

Sometimes I wish I had been just born a girl. At least then I wouldn't have to deal with the prejudice that my mother has towards me, all because she wanted to have a daughter instead of another son.

My mouth is dry, and my tongue suddenly feels incredibly cumbersome. "I…"

"Peeta attacked me!" Rye supplements before I can regain proper speech, his allegation sending a rush of cold dread into my system.

There's no way I can refute that. Rye may have provoked me, and even tried to make the first punch, but that does not excuse the fact that I tried to strangle him. That I had tried to…

My eyes begin to water, and it's almost as if they already preparing for the slap that soon hits me across the face.

"You insufferable brat! Do you think that just because you're classified as a victor that it gives you the right to act so brutish, so uncouth like those Seam riffraff's?"

I hang my head, to hide the few tears that stream down my cheeks.

Bannock tries to come to my defense. "Ma, it wasn't Peeta's fault."

"Stay out of this, Bannock!" she snaps at him, commanding him into silence. She shoves the bags of goods into my father's hands so that she can grip my chin and force me to look her in the eyes. I'm embarrassed to say that I flinch at the steely look in her hard, blue eyes.

"Apologize to your brother, you filthy creature!"

I do as I'm told, my words coming out in one long, quick rush. I scurry away before my mother has the chance to strike me again for my incompetent apology. She shrieks at me that if I should ever act in such an improper manner again that she'll tan my hide for sure. I don't doubt it, not if my swelling cheek has anything to say about it. I just fear that one of these days that she'll get it into her head to snag a whip from one of the Peacekeepers to really make her point.

I run as fast as I can through the snow with no clear direction in mind. At first I think I might be heading back to my house in the Victors' Village, but I rush straight past it. Instead, my feet take me to the Seam of all places.

I'm at the outskirts of the rundown collection of homes when I trip on my own feet. Snow flies as I collapse to the ground, breathless and exhausted. The chill eases a bit of the pain from my swollen cheek and for a while I merely lay there, my body feeling like deadweight as it steadily gets numb. Hot tears burn paths across my skin and fall into the snow, freezing seconds later.

I don't have the will to get back up. Maybe it would be better for everyone if I just stay like this and freeze to death…

"What are you doing?" a voice asks me, tone puzzled and piqued with a dash of curiosity.

I lift up my head, only because it's Katniss who's speaking to me.

She's looking down her nose at me, her arms crossed against her chest and her cheeks flushed from the cold. A bag is slung across one shoulder, surely filled with whatever creatures she's managed to kill during this harsh season. Though she tries to hide behind her usual cool bravado, her eyes give way to some level of concern. My spirits lift a little to think that maybe Katniss is worried about me.

"I thought it would be nice to lie in the snow for a while." I mutter, not bothering to get up. And even if I wanted to, I don't think I could. I can't feel my legs.

"You do know you're going to catch hypothermia if you keep that up, right?" She's talking down to me, as if I'm stupid and maybe I am. But I do know what would happen if I just decided to lay here and never get back up.

Too tired to be patient, I can only mumble crossly, "I'm well aware…" My face falls back into the snow, my eyes closing before hand.

Some time passes in which we do not speak, dragging on almost like hours slipping by. I may have fallen asleep for a while, though I'm not sure. I can't quite comprehend anything until I realize that I'm not lying face down in the snow anymore. In fact, I'm sitting in a chair in front of a fire, stripped of my clothes barring my underwear. A couple of blankets are wrapped around my body, insulating the warmth.

I can hear movement in the kitchen. At first I think it's Myrina, but my assumption is proven wrong when I see my father approach from the corner of my eye. He doesn't look surprise to see me awake.

"Those are some frightful paintings you have in here, son." He remarks as he sits down in the nearest chair, releasing a long sigh. He's referring to the few I have laid out on the dining table, all of which depict the District 1 boy and me during the last day of the Games.

"It's what the people will want to see." I don't look him, ashamed and a bit embarrassed by the scene that my mother had made back at the bakery. Or the scene I had made by fleeing. But there is something that I need to know. "How'd I get back here?"

A somewhat amused chuckle rings out, filling me with a kind of warmth that no fire can ever provide. "Oh, that, well I ran into Katniss on my way after you. She led me to where you were."

I smile a little, wondering if she had actively sought out help or if she had merely ran into my father by chance. I'd like to think—and hope—that it was the former, but it's most likely the latter. I really can't be too picky about, now can I?

My father grows suddenly serious and a tad wary as he asks me, "Peeta, did you really attack your brother like he says you did?"

The guilt from before returns anew, bringing back tears to my eyes. I know I shouldn't be feeling this guilty, seeing as how I wasn't the one to make the first move, but I can't help. I could've killed Rye if Bannock hadn't been there. I'm very capable of doing such a thing; after all, I did win the 73rd Hunger Games at fifteen. That does not come with clean hands and a clear conscience.

My hands clench onto the armrests tightly as I croak out, "No…I didn't."

"I didn't think you did, but I had to make sure."

"Why?" I can't hide the hurt that seeps to my voice, the pain of possibly being viewed as a threat by my own father too much to simply bury away inside of me. "Do you think that I'd actually intentionally hurt my brother? Rye and I may not get along very well, but I would never…I mean I wasn't trying…he just…I got confused…"

My father places a stilling hand on my shoulder, the gesture conveying that I don't have to continue. His next words ring with hints of regret.

"It's not what you did that frightens me. It's what it's done to you that does." He gives another drawn out sigh, removing his large hand to cradle his face and rub his temple wearily. "Perhaps some of it's my fault. I was…I was afraid of learning that you weren't the sweet boy I had raised you to be anymore. I didn't want to look at what the Games had turned you into. I didn't want to accept that you weren't the same anymore."

My father's words make sense, but that doesn't mean they don't sting any less. I want to protest that I'm still the same, but keep the assertion in my throat. It would be a lie.

"I'm sorry, for pushing you away." He glances at me with a look hoping for forgiveness.

I refuse to look at him, refuse to take sympathy. He's admitted to something that I had been trying to make myself believe wasn't true. And as irrational as it may seem, it upsets me.

I bite down hard to keep my anger in check as I stiffly grate out a complacent, "It's fine."

Yep, that's right, I'm fine. Things like my family ignoring me as they subtly disintegrate me from their lives is something I shouldn't get work up about. Just because my father didn't want to accept this changed version of his youngest son doesn't mean I should take it personally. I, Peeta Mellark, am absolutely okay with being a pariah.

Because Peeta Mellark is such a damn pushover.

We both know that it's in fact not fine, but he's waiting for me to elaborate. When I don't, he adds almost anxiously, "I want you to know that I'm not mad at you for whatever you did to Rye. That boy was only asking for trouble."

I hold back a derisive snort, focusing my attention on the fire that blazes in the hearth. He may be alright with my actions, but I'm not and I don't think he understands that.

A part of me will always love Rye in spite of our haphazard relationship, because he's my brother. It was accidental that I confuse him for another tribute trying to end my life. However, things like that aren't normal. My actions shouldn't be given excuses, they should be punished.

I want to say so many things: to confess that I'm so messed up for reacting the way I had to Rye's punch, to argue that I need help from my family in repairing my shattered self, and to plea to be given a chance to return back into my family's life.

I say none of them though. Instead, I keep my mouth firmly shut, my eyes staying on the dancing flames that give back heat to my cold body.

My father lets out one last sigh as he gets up and leaves. He's noble intentions of assuring me have ended in failure, leaving me to feel sour and bitter instead of cheered up.

He's given up on trying to make amends for slowly pushing me away. Perhaps it's high time I do the same and give up on ever thinking I can go back to the life I once had.

It was stupid to think that things would go back to the way they were before I was drawn into the Hunger Games. Even stupider to think that my family would welcome me with open arms if I won and proved to them that I wasn't as worthless as my mother claimed me to be.

My parents had expected their son to die and to them, I did. The Capitol has succeeded in robbing me of my family in such an inconceivable manner in favor of giving me a materialistic life I do not want.

My hands tighten further on the armrests, my knuckles white. My jaw clenches and my lips make a thin line. For the first time, seeds of hate towards the Capitol are sown into my heart.

I have to wonder if all the victors before me ever feel this way. And if they do, I want to hear about.

* * *

**Author's Note: Angst! So much angst! This will change come time for the Reaping, I swear!**

**I want to apologize for skipping my update day. I was busy with school and hadn't much time to dedicate to finishing the chapter on time. I'll try not to let it happen often, but if I miss an update, know that it's most likely because of school.**

**The next chapter will feature the Victory Tour!**


	5. The Hand That Feeds

Ch. 4

The day before the Victory Tour my prep team arrives. It is comprised of three individuals: Baithazar, a gaunt looking fellow with deep violet hair braided down his back and skin as white as chalk who had a terrible habit of mumbling when he spoke; Egidio, an exuberant young man with spiky red hair, several earrings, and numerous silver rings glittering on his fingers who liked to tease and flirt with his two partners; and Ismena, a short woman with large blue eyes, plump lips, skin that glittered when the light hit it right, and finger nails filed to sharp points who went about her work in quiet dignity. In spite of her rather shocking appearance, she was actually rather personable for a Capitol citizen.

I'm waiting in the bedroom I hardly ever use, fresh from a shower and dressed in only a bathrobe when the trio come walking through the door.

"Peeta!" Egidio greets as if we've been dear friends for years, embracing me tightly. His thin frame belies the strength he possesses. "It's so great to see you again!"

"You too, Egidio." I wheeze, stifling a cough when he finally releases me and the air rushes to my lungs. I glance at Baithazar and Ismena, the two lingering at the door waiting to be politely acknowledged.

I open my mouth to say something, but Egidio beats me to it.

"Come now, you two!" he directs to them reproachfully. "Don't let me hog all the Mellark love. There's _plenty _to go around."

Despite how hot my ears are beginning to feel, I give them an easy smile that finally draws them away from the door for a collaborative hug. Egidio's arms are around me once more, and I have the faintest suspicion that he's trying to make me feel as uncomfortable as possible on purpose.

When all three withdraw, they start getting to work, nitpicking the minor details that, while I perceive to be insignificant, are complete travesty to them. Before I know it, the robe is on the floor and I'm nude to them all. Initially, it had embarrassed me to have strangers looking over my body in such a fashion. Now…well, I try not to think about it.

"Don't tell me those are more calluses on your hands…"

"This hair! Didn't I tell you to keep it trimmed?"

"Boy, you need to keep this skin moisturized!"

I've learned early on to relatively tune out their incessant prattling, giving my input at the appropriate intervals to show I was (although not really) paying attention. As they make me presentable for the people of the Capitol and in extension the Districts, they go on and on about the ins and outs of fashion, scandalous affairs amongst the elite class, and on which tributes I just _have_ to meet while I'm touring.

They all agree that if I must meet anyone, it would have to be District 4 victor Finnick Odair. I kind of know who he is, through vague recollection I have of watching the 65th Games. But apparently he's, and I quote, 'a dreamy hunk of man-flesh with the greenest eyes any person could have.'

All of them seem to be enamored by the man, going on and on about how they wished to meet him at least once. From what details they give me, it seems like I know the man personally by the time they've finished making my skin smooth, cut my hair, and remove whatever excess body hair that's managed to grow back from the last time they did all this.

"We'll go get Portia," Baithazar drawls as he puts away his glasses into the breast pocket of his pink pinstripe vest.

Egidio nods enthusiastically, looking me over slowly as he follows Baithazar out the room. Ismena, noticing her partner checking me out, smacked him upside the head as they all left. He made his discontent known by pouting to her questionably, earning a scoff and eye-roll.

I hide a laugh behind my hand, shaking my head slowly as I a slip the discarded robe back on. I'm tying the belt around my waist when my stylist comes in.

"Let me guess," I say with a dramatic sigh, "I'll need to take this robe off again."

Portia gives a humored chuckle, moving the garment bag she carries over to one arm so that we can hug. Unlike my prep team—whom I have some level of compassion to regardless of their awkward quirks—I feel more at ease whenever I'm around Portia. It's hard to describe what it is that she does, but I almost think of her as the mother I wish I could have.

She's a kind and collected woman with dark skin and a large smile that can come and go quicker than most. Her overall personal style is rather mundane for Capitol standards, her hair cropped short and dyed platinum blonde because of a bet that we had as I entered the Arena that she would dye her hair blonde if I won. I first thought it to be a joke to help ease my frazzled nerves, but the fact that she actually carried through with her word makes me appreciate her gentle soul even more.

She wears some make-up that emphasizes the roundness of her face and is of much more natural tones for her complexion. The only gaudy color she happens to use is a vibrant yellow for eye-shadow, which complements well with the black lipstick she has on. She almost looks like an overgrown bumblebee, her outfit comprised of yellow and black, but I'd liken her to more of a swallowtail butterfly instead. That sounds more adequate, given the droning nature of a bee compared to the elegance of a butterfly.

When we withdraw from the embrace, glimmers of concern shine bright in her doe-brown eyes. Her free hand squeezes my elbow as she asks softly, "It's good seeing yah again, Peeta. How've yah been?"

My shoulders immediately sag. It's as if the weight of all that I've been trying to hold back in front of my prep team's eyes has come crashing down.

"You've seen the paintings I intend to bring with me." I state ruefully.

An uncomfortable silence settles between us, one that thankfully doesn't last long. Portia tries to make light of the situation by changing the subject.

"Well, here Mr. Victor, put this on." She passes me the garment bag and watches patiently as I place it on the bed and unzip it open.

Inside is a black double zipper jacket with a wide hood, a pale blue button-up shirt, and deep navy pants. I can't help but give a crooked smirk as I say, "When will a simple shirt and pants ever suffice?"

She chuckles, knowing that I'm in no means denouncing the outfit she's taken the time to design for me.

"When you get to be as popular as the infamous Finnick Odair, you won't have worry about wearing anything," she remarks with a smile that shows her teeth. But there's something in her eyes that's off, something that tells me that she isn't quite joking. I can't decipher what she would mean; it obviously can't be literal. At least…I don't think it could.

She walks over so that we're standing side by side, her hands going up to squeeze my shoulders quickly before she goes and begins removing the clothes carefully from the hanger. She's focused on this task as she adds belatedly, "Until then, I'm afraid you're going to have settle with what I give you."

"That shouldn't be too hard." I loosen my robe and Portia takes it as her cue to step out for a moment.

Quickly I get dressed, Portia returning minutes later as I tug on some socks onto my feet. She's brings with her the finishing touches of the outfit: a pair of boots, grey gloves, and a grey scarf accented in a blue that matches the color of my shirt. I put them on without question, feeling a little bit warmer when I do so.

"Will all the Districts be like it is here in Twelve?" I ask, curious if I'd have to wear this outfit for long.

"I believe District Seven and Eight have some snow as well, but Eleven is actually warm during this season."

"So…I can just take off the jacket, gloves, and scarf, right?" I don't see much need for a wardrobe change when it shouldn't even take us very long to get to District 11.

As if sensing my line of though, Portia laughs and says, "Yes, and I'll have another pair of shoes for you to wear as well. But I'm afraid in exchange you're going to have to wear a tie."

I give a breathy sigh as I reply, "Oh, the pain of it all!"

We both start to laugh, like the friends that we've become, trapped in a moment of blissful ignorance. This moment, however, comes to a screeching halt when rapid knocking comes to the door.

"Peeta! Are you ready, dear? We've got a busy, busy, busy day ahead of us and I would like to stay on schedule." It's none other than Effie Trinket, still striving to be as punctual as ever.

I tense, reminded of why I'm actually here, in this room and in these clothes. I manage to croak out a response that's adequate enough, though I can't remember what I say. Portia is soon in front of me, her slender hands placed gently on my cheeks, forcing me to look at her.

She leans forward and whispers to me softly in my ear, "Stay strong, sweet boy. This storm will pass soon enough."

She places a tender kiss on my forehead and I try to smile, but it doesn't quite reach my eyes. I want to believe her, but this life will never end at the Victory Tour. It only gets worse from here on.

* * *

The rest of day passes rather quickly. Photos were taken of us as we made our way to the train station, sure to be posted in whatever tabloid or magazine that circulates within the Capitol. I put up a mighty good show, if I do say so myself. I wave and smile to the camera, making sure to present myself as the average boy given a stunning life of fame. I even go out of my way to say goodbye to my family despite how frustrated they've made me, acting as if nothing was even wrong to begin with.

Despite the glare I was receiving from Rye, I think things went rather well. It was sure worth it to see my mother get so flustered when I embraced her rather tightly, not bothering to make the gesture quick and painless like I usually do. It's my way of getting back at her for slapping me. Whether she realizes that or not is another story.

Not long after that we're all on the train, quickly situated into our individual compartments. I don't stay in mine long, reminded too much of the dread of having to go to the Capitol after being selected for the 73rd Hunger Games. It's a painful memory to have, especially when Madge would never make the trip back home alive.

I take the mockingjay pin I made sure to stuff into the pocket of my pants before we left into my fist. The pain of the sharp edges pressing into my palm does well to ground my thoughts into the present instead of dwelling on the past.

I make my way to the dining car, just to be somewhere else, finding only Effie and Portia to be there. Both women watch me attentively as I sit down next to them, pulling off my gloves as I do so.

"How long will it take to get to District Eleven?" I ask.

"Not very long, actually. We should arrive in a couple of hours or so. " Effie answers while she stirs some sugar into her cup of tea.

I nod, unwinding the scarf slowly from around my neck. Effie doesn't pay me any mind after that, but Portia glances at me periodically, probably waiting to see if I'll crack just in case she needs to come and pick up the pieces. I don't think such a thing will happen anytime soon, but the gesture is still appreciated.

We sit in relative silence, making small talk that comes easily enough until Haymitch comes stumbling in, drunk and surly as ever. He plops down beside me, staring pensively at the tablecloth. He reeks of alcohol and the fumes make my eyes water. I almost gag.

"What brings you out of your cave?" I remark jokingly as I look at him.

Haymitch merely grumbles, lacking the patience to give me an intelligent answer. He's probably nursing a hangover by drinking more liquor, the influx and outflow of alcohol making him rather irritable. A drunk Haymitch is certainly not a happy Haymitch, that's for sure.

"Um…okay…" I draw out slowly, looking away quickly. Haymitch has always made me uncomfortable whenever he plied himself with liquor. I don't like seeing the misery that shines through in his bloodshot eyes. It reminds me of what I could become if I can't handle the torment that will face me for what is to be the rest of my life.

I look to Effie, who's just about fuming as she stares narrow eyed at Haymitch. It doesn't take long for her to voice her discontent. "Really, Haymitch? Do you always find the need to get wasted during these events? You're making us all look like fools!"

I think she really means to say that he's making _her_ look like a fool. But I'm not about to correct her.

Haymitch stares at her, clearly not amused by another one of Effie's lectures. "Does this look like the face of a person who cares?" he drawls condescendingly, smirking a bit when his remark has managed to ruffle her feathers further.

She struggles for some kind of witty comeback, but it takes her too long and all she can huff is a frustrated, "You!"

She then rises from her chair and turns her attention to me. It's as if she forgets all about the little tiff she's having with Haymitch as she says to me sweetly, "I'm just going to check to see if we're on schedule. Be sure to be ready soon, for I'm sure we haven't got long."

I smile and nod, only to bring Effie more to ease. This pleases her as she turns on her heel and struts away, sending a scathing look at Haymitch before she leaves.

Portia chuckles to herself softly, also getting up out of her chair. She takes the garments I've removed and says that she'll leave my tie and shoes in my room to change into when I get the chance. I thank her and quickly she's gone.

Now I'm all alone with Haymitch Abernathy.

Just the thought of it makes me slightly uncomfortable. I don't know my mentor all that well honestly, and what little I do know of him isn't much. I know his name, his age, and the year he won the Hunger Games. That's it.

Perhaps this is my chance to get to know him better. I don't think it would hurt, seeing as how we're bound to be going to the Capitol like this for a handful of years to come.

I find myself staring at him, fixated on his tired face that is surprisingly sad in a dejected sort of way. I don't know what to say other than I'm sorry for whatever pain he burdens himself with. His life must've not been an easy one, especially if it drove him into alcoholism. But at the end of the day he manages to get through it, in spite of the pain that comes with living. I have to give the man credit in that regard.

A few minutes pass until he notices that I'm staring, tensing in his seat and scowling over to me.

"What?" he growls, growing uneasy with the attention that's suddenly on him. When I don't readily reply, he almost becomes a petulant child in need of answer, drawing out another impatient, "What?"

"I'm just wondering how you can do this, is all," I admit, not confident at all that I'll be able to make it like Haymitch has. The pressure of it all seems a little too much; I fear I'm not strong enough. "It must be hard."

Haymitch gives a snort, resting his elbows on the table to rub his face. I'm sure Effie would've been on him for that if she was still here.

"Keep out of my problems and just enjoy what's been handed to you on a silver platter, okay kid? You've earned it."

He fumbles in the inside pocket of his blazer, fetching out a flask to take a quick swing. It must be empty if the look of discontent is to be any say in the matter. When he gets up out of his chair to move over to the liquor cabinets, I don't know what possesses me to stop him. My hand latches onto his arm, preventing him from sauntering over to get something to drink.

His head snaps back at me, a look of anger fresh in his Seam features. It fizzles out quickly when he notices the desperation that's suddenly on my face.

I stare at him, long and hard, hoping the look adequately conveys how his words have rubbed me the wrong way.

"I didn't earn _anything._" I mutter lowly, making sure to keep my voice below a whisper. I'm not sure what would happen if one of the train tenants caught wind of my words. This place could be bugged as well, but maybe I'm being a little too paranoid in that regard.

It's a gutsy move that I say this to Haymitch. I don't know much about the man after all, but a person who just drinks their worries away has to have some qualms with the Capitol. And if he does, then maybe we could do something about it. Its wishful thinking, I know, but it's better than doing nothing at all.

Haymitch appraises me silently, taking his sweet time in determining the validity of my claim. I can't help but feel as though I'm being judged like a common pack animal to see if it has any worth.

After a long moment that drags on for an eternity, Haymitch yanks his arm away and leaves me to feel a bit disappointed as he meanders over to where the alcohol is at.

He's fixing himself a glass when he comments, "My advice to you, boy, would be to give what the Capitol wants. For your speeches, just praise the Games, mourn the other tributes, and thank the Capitol for letting you live your life as a king."

I want to jump and protest, because this isn't what I'd expect from the man. Haymitch Abernathy doesn't strike me as being a complacent person. Never has, never will.

But he silences me with a look of warning. There's something unspoken in his grey eyes that send shivers down my spine. I realize that Haymitch isn't going to be a dog that'll simply roll over whenever you tell it to. This dog wants to fight back.

I'm startled to find excitement coursing through my heart as I watch him take a swing from his glass and walk over to a nearby window to scrutinize the scenery while it passes in a colorful blur.

He must have a plan. There's no way there can't be one judging by the spark of fire that burns deep in his determined gaze.

Whatever it is, I want to be a part of it.

* * *

**Author's Note:** **Alright! This is where things start to pick up! Peeta senses that there might be something going on behind the scenes and is anxious to join in on the party. Good for you Peeta-bread! **

**More Victory Tour, more revelations onto Peeta's Games, and guest star appearances from everyone's favorite tributes all in the next chapter! **

**Thank you those who reviewed/favorite/alert Burnt Toast! Please keep the love coming~**


	6. Keep Yourself Alive

Ch. 5

District 11 is a nice enough place, I must admit. It's warm for one, and it presents an overall vibe that, if one were to eliminate the Peacekeepers and the ominous barb wired fences, is actually pretty homey in the kind of rustic sort of way. The bright colors of life are a nice change in pace to the overall bleakly grey scenery that District 12 adopts every winter.

However, there's just one thing that ruins this otherwise ideal place: the grain fields.

I notice them as we're escorted from the train station. There's several preceding the acres of orchards out in the back, all tall and gleaming gold in the rays of the sun. My heart starts beating a little faster as the wind rustles the stalks, thinking that the movement can only be the result of the feline mutt fidgeting about, waiting for the right moment to pounce. It gets a little difficult to breathe just thinking about it, and the blood, and the screams, and the rain.

Haymitch, nearly stumbling into me from behind when I don't move a muscle, pushes past and grumbles, "You aren't thinking about coming at me again with a meat cleaver, are you boy?"

The jesting complaint snaps me from my rising panic, indignation soon to replace it.

"I already told you I was sorry!" I state heatedly, fed up at this point of feeling any more guilt over the matter. There are only so many apologies I can make until it just becomes a wasted effort. "Besides, I'm getting better."

My mentor snorts derisively. "Sure, and I'm sober."

I don't bother making another remark, nor do I have the patience to keep up what is likely to turn into an argument. Clearly the man holds no sympathies when it comes to how troubled a person can get when they make it out of the Arena. Why bother wasting my breath.

I occupy myself by thinking about the possibility of there being mutiny amongst the victors, maybe even, dare I wish, a rebellion. Could something like that actually work? It hasn't been done before, not since the Dark Days at least. Would it be worth it in the end? There was no way of ensuring that we—that is to say that there even is a _we _that meant more than just Haymitch and I—would come out successful in such an endeavor. We may just end up like District 13, marked down in history books as treasonous rebels whose story gradually fades into one made of legends as the years carried on.

Still, how could such an uprising _not_ be worth it? I think of what it could mean, of the peace and stability that could be ushered into the districts. The thought of not having to be governed by such tyranny makes me crave such a glorious dream even more. No more Reapings, no more Hunger Games, no more unnecessary deaths, just a world where everyone had the right to be free.

To me, that sounds like a pretty good world.

Something that good doesn't come cheap though. The price for freedom is a steep one, and I fear that the cost will be that of countless human lives. I fear even more that I just might not care. My hands are already dirtied by murder; what's a few thousand more added to my name? It'd be worth it in the end. It _had_ to.

Evening comes too quickly, and not before long I'm standing before the amassed crowd of District 11 delivering a speech that I can't say I'll remember the words to. I never had much exposure to the tributes from here, leaving me to say things in general terms like, 'Thank you for your sacrifice' and 'Your tributes fought valiantly'. I wish I could make it more personal, to honored the deceased tributes. But there isn't much I can say; both tributes had been killed in the initial bloodbath.

When my bland speech comes to an end, I'm ushered back into the Justice Building to change for the dinner party. Portia dotes on me, sitting beside me in a nearby chair to sling her arm across my shoulders and murmur assurances that I did well.

And I'm sure that I did. But that doesn't make it any easier.

That night, in the public eye I turn on the usual charismatic charm. I greet people with amicable smiles and answer any question that they may have. Most make passing remarks of my painting that are situated on easels all around the room, saying only polite things.

Portraits of the District 11 tributes stare solemnly back at the crowd at the front of veranda that had been erected in front of the Justice Building. They're gifts to the families to be done with as they pleased. I made sure I painted each tribute to bring along with my initial collection, to show that, even though I might not remember their names, I haven't forgotten what they looked like.

Both tributes had been only eighteen-years-old, remarkable only in the fact that both had tried to save the other during the bloodbath.

We're they friends? Relatives? Lovers? I often wonder this, because such a display of camaraderie is rare and they never hinted to anything to the public. The need to live can often turn the closest of friends into the bitterest of enemies. Or even turn siblings against each other.

Yet, for some reason, that hadn't happened to them. They had stayed true to whatever relationship they had to the very end.

If it had been Katniss who had been my partner, and not Madge, I would've made damn sure I protected her with as much proficiency as it would take to protect my own life. Even if she didn't understand why or didn't share the feelings of love I have for her or had already chosen Gale, I would've kept her alive until death took me away from her.

I can't imagine my life without her in it.

No one had cried when I had unveiled the set of portraits to the district. No one had openly wept at the gesture, not even the families of the tributes. They held in their tears for another time, when there weren't Peacekeepers watching their reaction and they could cry all they'd want in private.

In some ways, I'm grateful for that. I don't think I could handle watching an entire crowd be move to tears without sheading a few of my own.

I thought I played the role of a gracious victor well, but I'm proven wrong as the party dwindles down and people are approaching me less and less in favor of filling their stomachs with a substantial amount of food for once. That's the only good thing that comes from the Games. Come time for the Victory Tour, all the districts are given a day of feast.

An older woman with olive skin, black hair streaked with silver, an aged face, and a fit body that contrasts with her obvious age comes up to me at the table I sit at alone, the one typically reserved for victors and the mayor. She takes a seat beside me without any invitation, settling down with a tired huff.

"Hello." I greet politely, a smile automatically springing to my lips.

She glances at me, a bemused smirk tilting up one of the corners of her lips. After a few, long seconds she mutters to me keenly, "You ain't fooling me with that bright smile of yours, young man."

A certain terror fills me then, one that threatens to dismantle the level of composure that I've striven to maintain while I'm out in the open like this.

The older woman, as if sensing this, gives an amused chortle that is pleasantly warm. "Don't worry," she assures, "No one who doesn't understand will be able to tell how you really feel."

I stare at her, baffled and a little miffed. "I'm sorry, but I don't believe you ever introduced yourself."

"That's right," she remarks, as if she just remembering something. "Your parents were probably only children themselves when it happened. My name is Seeder and I'm one of the victors of District Eleven. How do you do, Mr. Mellark?"

A sense of awe fills me as I realize that sitting beside me is a wizen victor who's lived through her life having to deal with the anguish of being a winner of the Games. Not only that, but she seems relatively fine from what I can tell.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Seeder." I say, struggling not to sound too enthusiastic or eager. I offer my hand and she takes it with a surprisingly firm grip.

She looks directly into my eyes and almost instantly her face softens with a maternal glow. "Oh you sweet, honest boy. Don't think ill of me if I wished you had just been killed when it was down to you and that District One boy, for it would've surely spare you the pain you burden yourself with. But you already know that, don't yah Peeta."

I've hardly said much to this woman and already she knows me better than I would think it were possible for a person to in only a few minutes. It must come from mutual understanding; there's no way of explaining it.

Leaning forward, I'm compelled to ask her question that I kind of already know the answer to. "Does it get any easier?"

She looks away then, her smile disappearing. A solemn look glints in her golden-brown eyes and her mouth becomes a harsh line as she stares off at the people of her district. I'm almost reminded of Katniss or of an older version of her at least. The belief would be more concrete if Seeder's eyes were grey instead of such rich amber.

"Only if you let it," she murmurs sagely, her features softening with a ghost of a smile hinting at her lips.

I follow her gaze, seeing that she's staring at a man around her age with a darker complexion standing some feet away, watching us casually as he speaks with a younger gentleman carrying a young girl on his shoulders. They all share hints of resemblance with each other, and I quickly come to the conclusion that this must be Seeder's family.

The very notion that a victor was able to move pass the burden of the Hunger Games and manage to start a family astounds me. It also gives me a bit of hope for my own future.

Seeder begins to rise from her chair, taking my hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. A radiant smile returns to her face as she passingly remarks, "Lord knows I'm glad it was one of us and not another career that won though. People like us know how to appreciate the things that really matter. But it also makes it that much harder."

I nod. There's nothing I can contribute that wouldn't echo back her very words.

"Best be seein' yah, Peeta. I wish yah the best of luck."

Her hand slips from mine as she departs and makes her way over to the man she had been gazing at. I'm suddenly left feeling cold and alone. It doesn't seem possible, given the fact that the evening air is rather warm and the veranda is practically packed with people, but oddly enough that's how I feel.

I want to go back home, to District 12. The place may not be the most desirable place for me to be at, given the fact that I feel even lonelier there than I do here, but its home. It's better than nothing.

Sighing forlornly, I look around for Haymitch, partially wondering if he's even attending the banquet due to how auspiciously quiet it is when there's a man like him around. I'd think he'd be making a fool of himself by now, given that it's been a couple of hours since the party has been going on.

Surprisingly though, I finally spot him sitting in a far corner with a large, strong looking man not much older than him. They pass between them a bottle of wine, taking turns swinging the liquor back. Haymitch appears rather carefree and dare I say happy for once, and I doubt the alcohol has anything to do with it.

He speaks animatedly to the man sitting beside him, to the two laughing at something that had apparently been funny.

In the midst of his laughter, Haymitch notices I'm looking at him and immediately grows serious. His companion's own laughter drops as he glances at Haymitch, wondering what's wrong.

Our eyes remain locked together for a few seconds until my drunk of a mentor turns back to his friend, appearing far more serious as he begins speaking again. He gesticulates wildly with his free hand and says something that causes them both to glance at me.

I stiffen in my seat, not sure why their looking at me in such a fashion. Haymitch has obviously told his friend something about me, the curiosity in the man's dark eyes all but telling.

When we get back on the train that night, I try questioning Haymitch about the incident. All I was given was something that was crossed between a snarl and a burp. Regardless, that brutish response was enough to convey to me that he wanted to be left alone.

I guess I'll never know what Haymitch and his friend had been talking about that had to do with me.

* * *

The other districts follow in a similar manner. I arrive and deliver a speech that may or may not have my own added touch, convene about an hour later to the party that is usually held around or inside the Justice Building, unveil portraits, and generally mingle with the populace. These events carry about in a manner that is typically the same as the one that came before it. The other victors end up being one of two types: good-natured and polite, generally normal people or addicts of some sort too lost in themselves or angry at the world to really notice what the heck is going on.

There is one, however, whom I have not been able to place in either of those categories. She kind of just stands out in her own.

I'm in District 7, and I've been mingling with its denizens for a while, chatting about how similar the weather is there to District 12's when a short, spiky-haired woman comes strutting purposively over to me.

Looking back on it, I should've noticed sooner the way the man and woman I'm speaking to seem to shy away and leave with abrupt farewells.

It isn't until I'm kicked rather hard in the shin of my right leg, the good leg, that I take notice of her presence.

"Ow!" I shout, partially out of reflex and partially out of pain. I fight the urge to hop on my other foot—knowing I'll only just fall over—and instead to choose to look at her feet. Unlike the majority of the women inside the expansive ballroom of the Justice Building, she's chosen to wear boots instead of heels with her dress. How convenient for her.

"Damn, must've kicked the wrong leg." She then gets ready to kick my left leg, her foot poised and ready until I jerk back anxiously.

"What are you doing!?" I ask her, baffled by her actions.

But this is Johanna Mason, victor of the 71st Games, and she really doesn't need a reason to kick a person. Only this time she has one.

"That District One what's his face punk nearly knocked your leg clean off. I just wanted to see if you had to get it replaced."

I quirk a disbelieving eyebrow. "You could've just asked…" I mutter dryly.

A slow, predatory smile spreads onto her chapped lips, her eyes glowing with dark amusement. I almost flinch.

"Now where would the fun be in that?" she asks, crossing her arms and staring me down.

She takes pride in seeing me inwardly squirm. She knows she's making me uncomfortable and she just about loves it.

When she's had enough, she suddenly looks a little surprised, then upset, and begins poking me vehemently in the chest.

"Why'd you have to go and kill my girl, huh kiddo? She could've won you know!"

I stare at her wide-eyed.

Of course there's another person who could've won. There's always another person. But instead I got in the way of that happening. Why doesn't it surprise me?

Isn't one person genuinely glad to see me alive? Well, isn't there?

God, this is just sad.

I think about the District 7 girl, Allison Wilder, and oddly of her russet mane that was wild like her spirit. I had wondered if she was ever going to tie it back when we were all sent into the Arena, but she never did. It was as tangled and frizzy as ever when I killed her.

Let me rephrase that.

Her death had been an accident, but in all intents and purposes, I had killed her. She was my first victim, and often times the guilt of it all is unbearable. She was—and still is—most prominent in my nightmares.

It happened a couple of days after the bloodbath. Half of us were still alive at this point, the Careers making easy work of the weak and defenseless. I had been walking through the long clearing that ran between the two expansive wheat fields that one could easily deem as never ending if they wished to. I certainly did, before I discovered the clearing.

I had just been kicking a stone along, out of sheer boredom, when out tumbled Allison from a little ways up, wrestling with Dante, the boy from 2. It was a vicious tango, Allison giving inhuman howls as she swung her pair of hatchets at Dante's face. He'd jerk back, frustrated with her display of tenacious strength. She wasn't going down without a fight.

I didn't know what to do. I feared that the pack Dante was a part of would come down on us in any second, so the logical option would be to just flee while I still had the chance. But the sensible side of me kept me in place and urged me to take up my machete to go to her aid. Not before long I was jabbing at Dante, slicing him a couple times across the face and arm.

Taking notice of me then, he snarled and pulled away from on top of Allison, right when I was thrusting the sharp end of my weapon downward where his muscled back should've been. Instead, I hit Allison right below her chest.

A sharp scream pierced the air. Dante gave a hooting laugh, pleased that I had hit Allison instead of him. I'm too stunned, starring wide-eyed at how fast the color is draining from her face, to stop Dante from tackling me to the ground.

His fist hits my cheek hard, the blow breaking skin and knocking a bit of sense into me. I attempt at blocking the next blow, but he hits me in the stomach instead of the face, winding me. I gasped hopelessly for air as Dante snatched one of Allison's hatchets from her weak grip.

"You should've just run while you had the chance," he said with a cruel smirk on his sweaty face. He drew the hand holding the small ax back, preparing to drive it home into my chest when Allison came up in one fluid motion from behind him and used the weapon she still possessed to slit his throat.

Dante fell away, clutching his neck as his life literally slipped past his fingers. Sickening gurgles escaped his opened mouth as he fought for speech, eyes alight with uncharacteristic fear. So quickly the tables had turned that Dante didn't have much time to fully understand what had happened.

He sent me one last pleading glance, begging and maybe praying for some help, before the light in his eyes were extinguished and the sound of a cannon fired was heard.

Allison gave a breathy laugh, muttering defiantly, "D-Dumbass…"

I had no clue which of us she was referring to: me or Dante.

I didn't dwell on it long though, sitting up and crawling over to where she laid curled on her side, dark blood seeping quickly from her gaping wound. The crude blade that had been lodged in her sternum lied discarded to the side, red with her blood. She must've yanked it out before she came to my aid. It must've hurt.

I stared at her ghostly pale face, feeling incredibly grateful and extremely guilty. She had saved my life. I had taken away hers.

Her hazel eyes stared at me hard, pain glazing them over. A snarl curled her lips as she grabbed a fistful of my tattered shirt and jerked me to her.

"Y-You…s-s-suck…" she gasped, coughing up red saliva. Her grip tightened and she looked even fiercer in spite of her pain. She let go of me soon after and touched her chest, right over her heart. "N-Next t-t-time…h…hit h-here…Death…quick…"

Her breaths were coming in shallowly, her chest rising less and less frequently with each passing second.

"Why?" I uttered brokenly to her, feeling so defeated that I've condemned my savior to death. I needed to know why she would take the chance to help me when I failed miserably to help her.

But a cannon is fired again before she could answer the question. Not that she ever could. She was dead.

Her vacant eyes stared back at me, stared into my soul and shook it with all its might. I sprung to my feet and bolted, not bothering to snatch up a weapon. I felt unnerved, a little unhinged maybe, at the sight of Allison's unfortunate death.

Why didn't she just let Dante kill me? Why? Why…

That night, I hid in a bush and shamelessly cried.

To this day, I'm tormented by Allison's reasoning for saving my life. Maybe she thought it was the right thing to do. Maybe she hated Dante enough to not even care. Maybe she didn't have a reason at all and just reacted out of instinct. I'll never know.

"I'm sorry…" I tell Johanna, feeling truly so. "It was an accident and I didn't mean for it to happen. If I hadn't intervened—"

She smacks my arm, barking with sharp laughter. "I'm just yanking your balls. I don't really care that you killed her. The girl had it coming, always rushing into fights. It's not smart, if you ask me. But you and me, we know how to play the game, don't we Peeta?"

She flashes me a conspiratorial grin, one that makes me sick to my stomach.

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean?" I ask, feeling a little peevish. I don't think it's funny that she doesn't care about the death of Allison Wilder.

"Oh come on!" she whines. "That whole weak thing? That first week of avoiding the other tributes at all cost, looking like you were really desperate, that had to have been an act just to fool everyone."

I simply stare at her and she continues on, as if trying to convince me that my actions were what she perceived them to be.

"You really showed you had a pair when that District One boy—damn, what _was _his name?—led that mutt over to where you and your district girl were at." She then chuckles, "Boy…even I was wincing, watching you go at him with that tomahawk at the end. But I bet it felt good seeing all that red mist."

I had not been pulling a Johanna Mason in the Arena. I hadn't been pretending to be weak only to come out looking strong when it was down to only a handful of us. I hadn't enjoyed what I did.

But for a moment, I did lose myself after Madge's death. Raw fury can do a lot to a person if they're not careful. And I of course hadn't given a damn at that point what happened. All I cared about was exacting vengeance.

I had become something ugly.

Johanna must think that that was the real me. But it wasn't, not really. I'm not like her, fooling everyone into thinking me as being weak. I'm not like her…I'm not like her…I'm not…

"I guess so," I say lamely, shrugging my shoulders. "You do what you have to, right?"

"Sure, when it comes to certain things. But sometimes you just have to put your foot down and say no."

"You look like you do that a lot."

She looks away, the simple act a sign of uncomfortable vulnerability. She recovers quickly though, her brash attitude returning full force.

"Damn straight! I take life by the horns and wrestle it to the ground."

I chuckle at the thought of small Johanna wrestling a hulking bull. If I was a betting man, I'd put my money on Johanna.

"You have to be the craziest person I've ever met." I tell her honestly, smiling good-naturedly and hoping she doesn't take it the wrong way. I really do find her strange outlook on things to be quite charming. Sure, a bit intimidating and a tad scary, but charming nonetheless.

"We've all got a few screws loose, kiddo—"

"I'm almost sixteen, you know. And you're not that much older than me."

"Suck it up, I could call you a lot worse!" she snaps hastily and gives me a glare. I take it as a sign for me to shut up. When she's satisfied knowing I won't interrupt her again, she continues. "Now, as I was saying, we've all got a few screws loose. How else do you think any of us made it through that hell alive?"

The question and all of its philosophical undertones shake me quite a bit. I try not to let it show, giving a look of indifference, saying, "It's instinct."

Johanna snorts, as if I've failed some little test. "Instinct's got nothing to do with it. This is a game, Mellark. Remember that we're still playing by their rules. We'll always be playing by their shitty rules, whether we're in the Arena or not."

She glares back and forth, scowling at nothing in particular. "But…" she says slowly, looking back into my eyes. "There's only one way you can win their game."

She pauses, and all we do is stare.

I force myself to ask the question, the one she's waiting to hear. "And what way is that?"

Johanna flashes a cruel smile, and for a split second she truly does look insane. "You die. In the seventy-three years that there've been the Hunger Games, there've been one thousand, six hundred and seventy-nine winners and seventy-three losers."

She doesn't look like she's just pulled that number from off the top of her head. She's done the math.

"Well, if you think of it that way, then why didn't you just let yourself get killed?" I question almost desperately, because the logic of it all just doesn't make sense.

"The same reason why any of us want to win: so that we can keep on living. It isn't until we've stepped out of the Arena that we realize we aren't alive at all." She starts strolling away, adding almost casually, "We're all just hunks of carrion going about our days waiting for the Capitol vultures to pick our bones dry. Best we could ever hope for is that they choke."

Her words, sounding so very true, linger eerily on my mind for the rest of the evening and the remainder of the trip.

* * *

Johanna's words bum me out for a couple of districts. I smile when it's proper and sulk when I can, brooding over the proverbial slap to the face. It's kind of a rude awakening, but not one I've been completely ignorant of.

It's funny. I've never been much of a brooder before the Games, but now I can't help but be one. I have to think, have to contemplate the actions that I and others have made or words that were said. I can't help it.

It's well past midnight and I'm sitting alone in the darkness of the dining car, the sounds of the train providing a comfortable lull of sounds. I stare out the window at the passing black and silver blur of scenery. The train should reach District 4 sometime in the early morning. I should be sleeping. But I'm not. I can't.

I can't stop thinking. My thoughts keep rattling inside my head, keeping me awake. I think about the District 11 tributes. I think about Seeder. I think about Allison and Dante. I think about Johanna Mason. I think about Madge. If I were sleeping, they would all be in my dreams—or rather nightmares. I wish I had made sure to grab my prescription pills. Sleeping would've been easier.

I hear the door slide open and a person steps in, flipping on the light switch. My eyes water from the sudden obtrusion.

Slowly I look to see who it is, but it's just one of the tenants, putting away a cart of dishes. The man goes about his work diligently and swiftly, never once glancing my way. I wonder if he knows I'm there. I wonder if he cares.

He leaves a few minutes later, and the lights are soon off again.

Doused in darkness, I hear the loud roar of thunder before it begins to rain.

* * *

**Author's Note: A chapter that is longer than usual. I hope you liked it. If not, well, let me know. The Victory Tour concludes in the next chapter. Don't forget to leave a review if you can!**


	7. Closer to the Edge

Ch. 6

The Capitol is a bizarre place.

This isn't necessarily news to me, because this isn't my first time here, but that doesn't lessen my surprise. I stare out the window of President Snow's mansion, drawn to it by the lights that flash outside. Cars zoom across the pavement like ants trailing after the other. This watching is a welcome distraction compared to having to watch my Games as it is displayed on the panoramic screens that are erected all around the ballroom.

The ambiance of constant chatter from the people in attendance coupled with the screams that are issuing from the speakers is nearly deafening, pounding painfully in my ears. I sip at my drink, only because it gives me something to do. I try, futilely, to tune everything out.

I begin to think that maybe I'll be left alone tonight when a hand slides down slowly between my shoulder blades and the person's lips get close to my ear.

"Aren't you a little young to be drinking that…Pee-ta?" the person purrs into my ear, making me involuntarily shiver, even if the voice is masculine.

I look over my shoulder to see the grinning face of a man looking back at me. Amusement plays brightly in his sea-green eyes. He looks vaguely familiar, like I've seen him before.

"I don't think it matters." I reply, swinging the rest of my drink back to emphasize my point. I try my best not to pull a face when the alcohol burns its way down my throat, the taste of it nearly making me gag. Just how can Haymitch put up with drinking this kind of stuff all the time?

The man, who can't be much older than me, cocks his head to the side and crosses his arms against his wide chest. "My advice to you would be to lay off the alcohol. Especially if it this is your first drink. You'll be surprised by how quickly it loosens tongues."

"And I take it this comes from experience?" I ask, already beginning to feel a faint buzz after only one drink.

The man laughs. "Nope, just from watching ol' Haymitch. That man can get drunk faster than I can swim!" He offers me his hand and introduces himself. "I'm Finnick Odair, by the way."

I feel a little stupid that I didn't realize this sooner. His eyes should've been enough to tell me that I was in the presence of probably the most celebrated victor in history.

I take his hand and shake it. "And you already know who I am." I say. Then something comes to my attention and I ask, "Aren't you from District Four? What are you doing here?"

"Oh, attending to a bit of business…" Finnick trails off, glancing off to the side, which beckons me to do the same. A short, plump woman with fuchsia colored hair standing a few feet away suddenly beams and scuttles over to us when he waves to her. She looks to be older than him, possibly in her early forties. You can never tell with Capitol people.

"Is she your girlfriend?" I ask him carefully, only because the woman's face looks downright smitten the closer she approaches.

He keeps up a grin as he says between his teeth almost pleasantly, "Heavens no." Finnick moves to her when she's finally close to us, opening his arms out wide as he exclaims, "Look at who I've found, Estelle."

"Oh Finnick, is that that baker boy, Peeta Mellark?"

He smiles as he puts an arm around her waist, pulling her close to his side as he facilitates introductions.

"Peeta, I'd like you to meet Estelle Plum. She's just been dying to meet you."

Estelle stares at me with outrageously wide-eyes, thrilled to be in front of me. "I knew I was right to put all that money on you!" she gushes eagerly. "My husband wanted to bet on that Ace boy, but he obviously couldn't see the potential that I saw in you!"

Husband? She's married? She sure isn't acting like she is the way she's pressed up against Finnick.

I shake her hand, pushing away my initial assumptions to appreciate the apparent confidence she had in the potential that even I had doubted ever existed.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Plum."

"The pleasure is all mine!" She shakes my hand with two of her own, gazing at me with total enthrallment.

I can see that her face is growing steadily redder underneath all the makeup she has on. She just about swoons when I flash an innocent smile to her and begins to giggle like a young school girl.

Finnick, probably feeling the need to have the attention returned to him, asks her, "Would you care to dance with me?"

Remembering that he's with her, she turns her short attention span to him and grins. "Oh, yes!" she breathes, taking him by the hand to lead him away. Before they get too far she peers over her shoulder to look at me, turning away quickly when she notices that I'm still watching them. She murmurs something to Finnick that has him looking back at me with an indecipherable look on his face. He says to her something that leaves her crestfallen.

The whole exchange leaves my skin crawling because I know it has something to do with me.

Whatever Finnick has said to upset Mrs. Plum he tries to make up for by leading her back to me and suggesting that we share a dance. I try to weasel my way out of it, simply because I'm horrified at the prospect of accidentally stepping on her toes due to my poor coordination. However, this gets Mrs. Plum joyous again and she drags me over to the dance floor, professing that she doesn't mind if I didn't necessarily know how to dance and that she would gladly teach me.

I must've trampled on her poor feet a dozen times by the end of it all, yet she doesn't seem to mind, keeping herself pressed uncomfortably close to me with that zealous smile plastered across her ruddy face and a hand that steadily strays lower down my waist.

Finnick finally cuts in in the nick of time, smiling amorously at Mrs. Plum and saying something like how he can't let me have all the fun. Mrs. Plum nearly faints.

Soon more women wish to dance with me, and for the remainder of the night I spend twirling women around the dance floor, stepping on more feet than I can possibly count and earning no rebuff because of it. Hands touch and stroke me everywhere, most especially in places that leave me red in the face with surmounting embarrassment. My embarrassment earns me coy giggles and excessive fawning, because they think my reaction is just about the cutest thing.

I have Finnick to thank for all of this, and I try my best to divert the increasing ensemble over to him. He only does the same to me in return.

All the women are getting a kick out of it, us going back and forth with each other, construing it in their heads that we're vying for each one of their attentions. They can believe whatever they want, so long as it gets me off the dance floor. But my plan, unfortunately, ends up being counterproductive and I'm left dancing almost up to the moment when I leave.

"Peeta, dear!" Effie trills, rising up onto the tips of her toes to see past the sea of women that stand between us. "We better get going if we want to make it back to District Twelve by tomorrow afternoon!"

I wave to show that I've heard her and politely excuse myself from my dance partner. Not after I do so am I approached by a very imposing man that has to be close to seven-feet-tall with his bald and tattooed head shining from the overhanging lights.

"President Snow wishes to see you," he says, his deep tone telling me that this is not a request I can easily get out of. This is an order.

My eyes fleet to Effie, who's just about throwing a fit because we won't be following her meticulous schedule, before I look back at the thick-necked hulk of a man.

"Lead the way."

The crowd easily parts for the man to past, and I shuffle quickly behind him as not to get sucked under the sea of women that are watching me go with dark desire. He leads me down a dim and vacant hallway, up a flight of stairs, and to a room that is manned by two heavily muscled guards.

The door is opened for me by one of the men and I casually step inside. The room is large, filled with various weapons and artifacts in glass cases, each bearing a plaque that gives a year and a name. Looking at them all, placed upon pedestals and stacked on bookshelves over filled with literature, I realize that all of these items incased in glass come from the Hunger Games. All of them, still in the condition that they were originally retrieved in. All crusted with the brown of dried blood.

"This is quite an exquisite painting, Mr. Mellark."

I spot President Snow's small back standing before one of my paintings now hanging on the wall space of his office, admiring it's terrible carnage. It's a depiction of the final clash between Ace, the District 1 boy, and I. It's from my perspective, swinging a tomahawk across Ace's face. He's reeling back from the blow with a face split by a red line.

"You show tremendous talent, my boy," says President Snow as he turns to me a little, reveling the very tomahawk depicted in the painting up on display in front of the piece. My name blazes like fire on the plague. I feel myself stiffen while my mouth goes dry.

A cunning smile better suited for a snake grows across his unusually swollen lips. "I thought it best to commend you in person."

"I'm glad you enjoy it, sir." I sputter, struggling to stay composed. "If you wish, you can have the rest of my paintings. I—"

"No, no, I just want this one," he insists with an amicable chuckle. "This one…this one shows what this fine weapon here did. I think it complements it well, don't you?"

He pats the glass holding the tomahawk almost fondly. Bile races up my throat.

"W-Will that be all…?" I stutter.

"There was something else I wanted to mention…" He thinks for a moment until he's struck by a thought that suddenly comes to mind. "Ah, yes, I remember now. Mr. Mellark, I'm sure you're aware by now that the odds of you winning were stacked heavily against you."

I nod. I've been through this kind of routine before that it isn't news to me.

"Then let me just tell you that a lot of good money was invested into seeing to it that you stayed alive. In time you may find that you'll need to…give back to those who were so kind enough to give to you in return. When that time comes, I find that it would be best to not question it, if there are still things that you care dearly about in this world. Trust me…you won't want to say no."

The threat that hangs heavily in his words shakes me right to the core. What does he mean by this? I'd gladly give my thanks to the people who helped keep me alive. But it can't be as simple as that, can it? There's more to it than what he's letting on.

"It shouldn't be a problem, sir. It's only fair, after all." I try to smile, but find that I can't, not easily enough at least.

"Yes…" he grins that predatory grin of his. "It's only fair…"

When I leave, I can't shake the feeling that I've agreed to something very terrible.

* * *

I don't know how I feel when I'm finally brought back to District 12, the Harvest Festival about to commence in a few short hours. On one hand, I'm relieved to be back on native soil, and that the Victory Tour is about to conclude, but on the other hand, I'm still this sort of unwelcomed stranger. People still don't know what to make of me, still waiting to see me do something equally as out of character as committing murder was in the Games.

It's because of this that I don't have any friends left, except for maybe Delly Cartwright, who'd be friends with just about anyone. The rest are all too intimidated by the fact that I'm a victor and the baggage that comes with it to maintain what should've been cherished friendships. I don't blame them though. It must be weird, for their friend, the mere son of a baker, to be elevated to basic celebrity status in the course of one week and a half.

Bannock and his wife Amy are the only ones that greet me at the train station, their amicable smiles reassuring to my heavily battered spirit. The rest of my family must still be at the bakery, either busy with customers or finding the time to herald me home too inconvenient for them. I know in both my mother's and Rye's case, it's probably a combination of the two. As for my father, well, we left off in such a bad note that I think he's just trying to give me space.

My prep team eyes them, curiosity shining brightly in their bizarre features. I realize that they haven't had much exposure to my family. The few times that they have seen them were mere wisps of moments. As they study Bannock, there interest seems to grow as they murmur amongst themselves, always the collectively knitted group.

Egidio, the most outspoken one of the trio, is the one who asks Bannock, "You must be Peeta's brother, uh…Benedict, is it?"

"Bannock," he replies, grinning at the man. He's always been eager to be everyone's friend, much like Delly in that regard. "I'm afraid I don't know your name though."

"Oh, it's Egidio, but like that matters." I notice the way his eyes look over my brother, appraising him quickly and smirking slowly, and I can't help but feel uncomfortable. Bannock seems to be aware that he's being checked out as well, but is completely unfazed by it. In fact, he looks smugly amused.

Egidio notices the ring on his finger and finally glances at Amy, assessing her as well. She isn't as confident as her husband is, fidgeting closer to him when she realizes that he's studying her.

Blonde hair a shade lighter than Bannock's and eyes an ocean blue that swam with hints of green, Amy was like any merchant girl. Her family was well off, owning the small mercantile a dozen blocks away from the bakery. She was a woman with a sweet disposition and gentle soul. Unlike my brother, whose personality was extroverted in every sense of the word, she was quite introverted, lacking any desire to have attention drawn to her.

My brother and Amy have known each other since they were kids, fast becoming friends when they first met. He was always so loud and she was always so quiet, the two making an unlikely pair. It didn't come as much of a surprise when they started dating at thirteen. They were the closest of friends, confining in each other their deepest secrets until they knew the other better than they knew themselves.

At sixteen, my brother had shared with me one night that he planned on spending the rest of his life with Amy. A week later he proposed to her, to the astonishment of both families. They tried convincing them that they were being irrational and were far too young to be making these kinds of decisions. Their words of advice were ultimately left unheeded, only agreeing to be wed when they turned eighteen. They had their wedding the night after their final Reaping, both finally free of ever having to worry about the possibility of one of them being sent into the Arena.

Sometimes I have to wonder how two people, so opposite of each other, could fit so well together. There's no doubt in my mind that Bannock and Amy are soul-mates. At twenty-one, they were both quite happily married. And I envied them because of it.

Back in the present, Egidio purses his lips and finally remarks, "You both are quite the handsome couple. It just about makes me green with envy!"

Bannock takes the complement with glowing pride, drawing Amy closer to his side. Amy in turn blushes from embarrassment, a tentative smile quirking the corners of her lips.

"If only Peeta could have you're ruggedness." Ismena comments almost flippantly. Baithazar partially nods, staring at my brother's longer and much curlier hair with mild interest. He's probably calculating the many different things that he and the team could do to make my brother really shine if they were ever given the chance.

"Nah, Peeta's got boyish charm working for him." Bannock says, waving the notion aside despite how much his ego has been bolstered in the short span of thirty-seconds.

I roll my eyes discreetly, unable to keep from smiling.

After a few fervent promptings from Effie and Portia providing distraction, our small procession moves from the train station to the Justice Building and I'm allowed to spend a quiet moment with my family.

"Have fun on your little trip?" Bannock asks in that boisterous manner of his.

I shrug, lacking the heart to delve into my true feelings on the matter. It only made me feel like crap.

My brother opens his mouth to ask another question but Amy, somehow sensing my dour mood, places a stilling hand on her husband's arm before he has the chance to inquire further about the tour. He looks to her, an eyebrow raised inquisitively. She shook her head and the question that had been on his lips dies without protest. Instead he got quiet, holding his wife's hand as we strolled over to the Justice Building.

"I'm glad your back, Peeta." Amy tells me in that soft-spoken voice of hers.

I smile at her sincerity. Out of everyone, Amy's been the only one tactful enough to go about as if nothing had happened. That my initial absence in 12 had nothing to do with the Hunger Games. Whatever qualms she may have for me being a victor, she keeps them to herself, and greets me with that usual kind gesture that she's always had before this insane mess ever began.

We lapse back into silence, listening to the chatter of my prep team in front of us. Bannock and Amy part ways with us when we arrive at the Justice Building, informing me that they'll see me tonight.

I find myself tuning out of the happenings that follow, ones that I've gone through thirteen times now. It's all just a practice motion, and I go about in a haze as I reminisce my time spent at the ocean. It's exponentially better than thinking about how the Mayor will react tonight, especially when I unveil Madge's portrait or President Snow's implications.

District 4, to my delight, was right off the coast and in direct sight of the ocean. I don't know why I was surprised by this detail, because my time in school has taught me that geographically 4 is located near a body of water. But it did, and I think it had to do mostly with the fact that I've never seen the ocean before. I'm more accustomed to the sight of forests, valleys, and distant mountains, not a single blue plain that goes on past the horizon.

It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, to be on that beach to watch the sunset. I had never wanted to leave those white shores, to step away from the colors of sunset that dyed the sky in several shades of pinks and oranges, or the crashing lull of the waves and cry of the gulls.

What I felt that evening is difficult to describe, for I felt many things that went past well beyond words, to the point where a person like me, so good with words, was rendered speechless. But…I think if I had to sum it all up, I would have to say that I felt…I felt hope. That one day, this cruelty that eclipses us all will pass and that a new age will come to dawn. That we can't possibly be doomed to continue this life of tyranny, not when there are still sights as ethereal as that sunset left in this world.

It made me realize that a rebellion, whatever outcome it might herald, would be worth it.

A tentative hand presses lightly on my shoulder amidst my musings, dragging me out of my fond reminiscing and back into the cruel realities of the waking present. Portia is with me in one of the rooms I was ushered into, a midnight blue blazer draped over one arm.

A look of concern twinkled in her eyes as she asks, "Are yah alright, Peeta?"

"I'm fine." I reply a little too quickly. She looks at me skeptically, forcing me to reluctantly grate out, "I just have a lot on my mind, is all."

"Well…I'm here or just a phone call away if you ever want to talk." She hands me my jacket and straightens my tie. A slow smile grows across her lips as she remarks casually, "Got any girls yah looking to impress tonight?"

I chuckle meekly as I feel my ears begin to heat up. A sad smile is on my own lips as I mumble in reply, "You know I've got my eyes on only one."

"Oh yes, I know," she nods while she looks back up at me. "Made any progress with her yet?"

"I've been hard pressed just to get her to notice me. Though…I think she knows my name, which, you know, is always a good thing."

Portia squeezes my elbows reassuringly. "She'll notice yah." Her assurance is simple but it does well to bolster my hope.

Portia is the only person I've told that I have a crush on Katniss. It kind of just slipped out on one of the training days. The prospect of death has a strange way of making people confess things that they would've otherwise kept to themselves. And, well, I was not immune to it. I've unloaded a lot of my personal problems to Portia, and she has thankfully been patient enough to see me through it. I even told her about my problems with my mother, which, frankly, were hard for me to just admit.

The time for the Harvest Festival draws near and I'm left with a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach. I haven't felt this nervous since I was put into the arena. It isn't the speech that's got my stomach twisting into knots; by now, I've got that part down pat. What really gets me anxious is having to face Mayor Undersee.

I was with his daughter the day she died. I had made the foolish decision of splitting up, thinking that it would bend the odds in our favor if we were separate. If nothing else, then at least the mutt would only get me. But I had been wrong, and instead the mutt went after Madge. She might've survived if Ace hadn't tricked me into thinking that he had led creature over to us when we briefly crossed paths. Instead I had to listen to the horror of Madge's screams as she was ripped apart. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Just thinking about it makes me want to hide in some closet and hope that no one notices that the guest of honor isn't there. But I have an obligation to see this thing through first before I can let myself get sick and frightened by my experiences in the Arena. It's just one more night of this torment before I can return to the slow and mundane days that have kept me relatively sane.

When I step up onto that stage, I can't keep from glancing to the Mayor. Our eyes meet briefly before he looks down at the podium, frowning heavily. He introduces me to all of the district in a voice that is dead with dismal, as if it's suddenly gotten hard to get up each morning now that he no longer has a daughter and not much of a wife to boot.

For once, I grow hot under the collar and my palms begin to sweat. Mayor Undersee is making me more nervous than I thought he would and he really hasn't done anything. The words that I want to say catch in my throat; I flounder helplessly at the microphone. Not even the practiced speech seems to want to come out.

All eyes are me. All of their judgment, assumptions, and accusations are honed in on me. They hide it behind boredom and disinterest, but I know it's there. I don't know what to do; why am I up there again? It was never this hard in the other districts, or even in the Capitol. Just why am I flaking under the pressure here? Why can't I breathe when I'm standing here?

Panic grips me and I seek out Katniss, of all people. I don't know what kind of comfort she could possibly give me as I stand in the limelight, but when I finally spot her standing between Gale and Prim near the back, I'm spurred into relief. I quickly calm by staring into her eyes, as far away as they may be. She eventually notices that I'm staring at her and her brow knits forward in question in that way that can only be hers. She's wondering why I'm looking at her and I honestly can't give her an answer that doesn't give away that I'm in love with her if she were to ask me.

All of this happens in a span of a few short seconds, so when I recover, the lag isn't noticeable.

I delve into the speech that I've scripted for myself, hesitant to add anything else unique until I remember the concealed portrait that is standing up on stage with me.

"I feel the need to say a few things about my tribute partner, Madge Undersee. Though I didn't know her as well as I would like, for I found myself liking her more than I thought I should, given the circumstances, I do know that she wasn't afraid. She accepted what I could not and that was the likelihood that this was to be her death. I'm sure she was frightened of dying, but not what would happen in death. In that regard, she was stronger than I was. And deserves to be up here on this stage far more than I do. But…just because she isn't here doesn't mean she's forgotten."

I pull the sheet away and revel Madge's portrait that bears a startling likeness to her. The crowd pauses at this, seeming to freeze at the sight of the painting, at the quiet modesty and hinting smile that stairs back at them all. The mayor himself seems stunned as he looks to the portrait of his daughter, his eyes wide as they glass over with unshed tears.

He glances to me a second time, asking an unspoken question; he wants to know why and if he can have it.

I give a small smile and subtle nod before saying, "This painting is meant for you and your wife, so that she will always be remembered. She's deserved that, at least." I shoot a hard stare over at the Peacekeepers that are manning the guard towers surrounding the stage, resenting that which they were employed to do: to make sure we all suffered.

The mayor turns his attention back to the painting, longing in his despairing eyes. His fingers brush reverently across the canvas while he struggles hard not to cry on stage. His attempts are admirable, but he isn't able to hide the faint quiver in his lips or the harsh lines on his forehead from furrowing his brow so deeply. When he finally admits defeat, he snags the frame and bustles away, not even bothering to make a closing speech.

I stand there a bit awkwardly before stepping down as well, earning a few pats on the shoulder and approving nods. The mood that was once thick in the air and frazzled with tension seems to have been elevated, presenting a much more opening atmosphere that makes me feel more welcomed. Now that the district knows that I feel remorseful for my partner's death, perhaps they'll be able to accept me back into society. Maybe not completely, but more so than I have been in months.

I slip away to the storefront of the bakery, taking a seat on the steps to rest my head in my hands. No one takes notice, or appears to really care. That's fine. I'm pretty exhausted of all this, having to be reminded of my filthy past. I'm glad all of this is over with. Now I won't have to worry about any of this, not until the next Hunger Games. When this hellish nightmare is brought forth anew.

"Congrats, kid. You made it through."

I lift my head up from my hands, squinting up at Haymitch. It doesn't surprise me that he's carrying around a bottle by the neck.

Without being asked to, he plops right down beside me, causing me to almost reel away by his unseemly musk. I play it off by rubbing my face, staring out at the people as they try to enjoy themselves, dining on the many platters of food situated on long tables.

I spot Katniss moving through the crowd, taking long strides over to where her family is. She has food in her hands, but I can tell from the subtle bulge in the pockets of her pants that she's stuffed whatever she could in there for later, when they really need the food. The desperation saddens me; is there not enough game for her to hunt out in the woods? I should leave some more bread at her house when I get the chance.

"Haymitch…" I mumble quietly, watching Katniss greet her sister with a beaming smile that is so rarely present whenever I see her. "I can't keep doing this."

Haymitch eyes me crossly, looking perplexed. "Can't keep doing what?" he grumbles.

"I can't keep pretending that any of this is right." I tear my eyes away from Katniss to look at Haymitch dead in the eye. "If there's something I should know, you'd tell me, right?"

He stares me down, mulling something over inside his head. Almost reluctantly he mumbles, "You'll know what you need to, okay kid. In the meantime, just keep doing what you've been doing."

I sigh. Again he's shutting me out. What will it take for him to get the hint that I want to be a part of this? I know there's something in the works. There has to be.

I'll just have to convince him that I'll do whatever it takes to be a part of this, whatever this is. Even if it's only doomed to fail.

* * *

**Author's Note: I'm sorry this chapter took a while to reach you all. I was both very busy and a tad uninspired. But I promise I'll try to get back onto my schedule. **


	8. Nature Boy

Ch. 7

I stare down at the cease and desist notice letter clutched in my fingers, crumbling it up slowly. I found it wedged under the door this morning, marked with the Capitol's official seal. It warns me in the politest way possible that I'll be face with fines or even corporal punishment if my actions continue.

Like a little warning is going to stop me. It might've in the past, but now I've got a purpose, a goal. As minor as it is, giving away food is a form of rebellion. It's the same for Katniss and Gale when they hunt. Even if they were told not to do it, they'd still do it anyways, I'm sure. Whereas they hunt, I bake.

Months have gone by since the Victory Tour, and as I had expected, everything had returned to the usual lull. Life goes on, even for a victor, and my days were spent in the typical boredom that has since taken over. Not that this calm is in anyway a bad thing, for it's quite nice to have slow days, but each one acts like the calm that is before a storm. Each day has brought me one step closer to the 74th Hunger Games and, as if in the blink of an eye, it will come knocking on my door tomorrow.

Becoming a mentor frightens me more than being actual tribute had. Tomorrow marks the starting point of what is to be a bad chapter in my life, when lives depend on my capability to teach. And even if I somehow do a good job, only one of my tributes will ever be able to make it out, meaning that no matter what I'll always come out as some failure. But having neither of them come out will make it a whole lot worse.

I wonder how long it took Haymitch until he finally gave up trying. I doubt he was apathetic to it all when he first became a mentor, but there had to have been a point where it just became too much for him to handle—especially alone. Was it after about his tenth Games as a mentor that he finally called it quits or was it much sooner than that?

There's still so much I don't know about the man. I think that will change though, come tomorrow. Hopefully he'll be sober enough to help guide me through what it means to be a mentor. He doesn't have to teach me very well, just enough to help me along so that I don't say something idiotic or detrimental. 'Cause honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do tomorrow.

Like I said, I'm frightened of this. This means death, the kind that is definitely well beyond my control.

I try spending this final day of normalcy as best as I can. That isn't to say that the task is easy, or terribly difficult, but it quite a challenge. There isn't much that I do on days like this, which, in hindsight, is rather pathetic and sad.

I wake up. I have breakfast. I paint and draw. I read. I watch television. I have lunch. I bake. I paint and draw some more. I have dinner. I go to bed. That, or some variation of it, is how my day goes. Occasionally I'll go out to pass out my goods, but that's only every few nights.

I think I'll be spontaneous today and start it off by taking a walk. I haven't done that in a while, especially after it rained a couple of days ago and left a bunch of moisture in the air that made the joints in my artificial leg stiff. It should be fine now though, given the fact that's quite sunny outside at the moment.

A rush of cool air buffets my body as soon as I step out, the rays of the sun shining down and enveloping me with warmth. I smile in spite of myself, reveling in the slight tingle of my skin heating up. Already my spirits seem to lift, and temporarily I forget that tomorrow will be a plain nightmare. Today is going to be a good day, because tomorrow surely won't.

I walk around through the Victors' Village and the Merchant Area, quietly observing the everyday happenings of District 12. People enter and exit varying stores, going about their day as if it were any other. Children rush through the streets, laughing and giggling and generally having a pleasant time. I miss that carelessness, to be foolish enough to believe that everything was fine. That your name couldn't possibly be drawn in the Reaping, not when there were so many Seam children who had their name placed in the bowl more times than yours. Now that I've been shred of such ignorance, there's no way I can go back to being just a child. I've been forced to grow up.

Maintaining my smile as best as I can, I continue on, nodding back to the few people who happen to take notice me. Ever since the day I returned from the Victory Tour, things have gotten better. People don't pretend to ignore me like they use to. I'm not the travesty that people had believed me to be anymore. I'm just Peeta Mellark, son of the district baker who just happens to be a victor. I'm glad people are starting to see that now.

My journey through the district eventually leads me to the Seam, where the people there seem to be more receptive of my appearance. I get cautious smiles and friendly waves from those that I past, the younger children looking up from their various games to shoot beaming grins. They know me as the boy with the bread, always there to feed the needy. It kind of makes me feel like a hero in one of those fairy tales that my father used to read to me and my brothers when we were little. I'm able to do a little good, and no matter how insignificant it may be, it makes me proud. I hope that in the near future that I'll be able to do even more.

I pass a couple of houses when I spot Katniss. She's walking away rather brusquely from the other houses, glancing to the sides periodically as she wanders off. Instantly I know where she's going: to the woods. I've watched her enter that forbidden zone so many times these past few months, catching her by mistake. She never leaves this late in the morning though; she must have been caught up doing something at home.

I've always yearned to follow her though, if only to just observe her in action. So, seeing as how I feel like going about my day being spontaneous, I do what I normally would not. And that's follow Katniss Everdeen into what can only be her domain.

I follow her at a safe distance, watching how she pauses at the electric fence for just a second before crawling under it where the ground has dipped lower. Once she disappears into the tree line I move to the fence. Getting under it proves to be more of a challenge for me than her, given the fact that my frame is much larger than hers. Through a combination of shimmying and fervent clawing I manage to make it over to the other side, though not without tearing a few holes in the back of my shirt.

Once free from the sharp barbs, I scramble quickly to my feet and jog as lightly as I can into the woods. One thing I've learned from being in the Games is learning how to tread softly. That isn't to say that I'm very good, especially now with my prosthetic leg. I'm hoping that if I walk real slowly, I'll go undetected.

I enter a whole new world when I step into the dense forest, assaulted by foreign smells and inviting sounds. Katniss is nowhere to be found, but that doesn't disappoint me. Without her here, it gives me a chance to take in this strange domain. I've always wondered what it was like in here. It's nice to see that it doesn't look as sinister as I was once led to believe.

I've been told many stories that the woods are haunted by the restless spirit of a man who was hung that lures people away if they step foot into the woods. That's just a story someone thought it'd be cool to share, obviously. Katniss and Gale go into the forest almost every day. I would think this supposed restless spirit would've done something to them by now. I wonder how that rumor got started anyway; every tale has a bit of truth in it.

No, this place is riveting in an average sort of way. The glen I've stepped foot into is fresh with life, set well away from the disastrous effects of coal dust from the mines. The air is actually pure here, taking me a bit of time to get used to. Some of the smells I recognize, like rosemary and dill, but most of them are new to me. It's quite refreshing, and I don't know why I ever put off coming here. With the shade, the relative quiet and enticing aroma, this place is perfect.

But when you get inexplicably tackled to the ground by some unknown assailant, the moment gets kind of ruined.

The person pounces upon me from above, feet slamming into my shoulders and sending me sprawling forward into the grass. I give a shout as I hit the ground hard, gritting my teeth as the person digs their knees into my back to keep me down and takes a fist hold of my hair. This only serves to get my blood boiling and I react without thinking.

I elbow my attacker, alleviating some of the weight pressing me down just enough for me to push them away. While they stagger from the blow, I manage to half roll, half scramble away to a crouch. I properly face my adversary with balled fists and a tense body, ready to react quickly if necessary. My hands are itching to fly to their neck when I realize that it's only Gale.

He seems just about as surprised as I am. He himself is in a crouch position as well, the hand that hadn't grabbed my hair drawn back with a honed knife still poised in the air and ready for him to strike, the butt of the handle facing me as opposed to the blade. I guess he had the intention of knocking me out until realizing who exactly I was, just as I had plans on strangling him until realizing who he was.

"Mellark?" he asks, his brow scrunching forward harshly.

My hands drop back to my sides before he has the chance to notice the way they've begun to quiver. I muster up a casual grin as I say, "Fancy seeing you here."

He scoffs, stowing away his hunting knife inside his boot before giving a shrill whistle. I don't have much time to ponder the meaning of this until Katniss emerges through a dense thicket of foliage. A bow in her hands, an arrow ready to be knocked back on the string.

Her eyes first go to Gale before turning to me. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling at how quickly her eyes get so wide.

"What are you doing here?" she finally hisses lowly after a few seconds of all three of us staring at one another. Gale folds his arms across his chest, staring at me pointedly as if he was going to ask the same thing.

So much for being spontaneous.

"I was just…curious," I nervously chuckle, "I always wanted to see what was so special about this place, seeing as how you both come here often. And, I must say, it's quite intriguing."

I look between them, smiling sheepishly at their un-amused faces. Perhaps coming here hadn't been one of my better ideas, but I'm not about to let them scare me off so easily. It's not like I plan on making this little excursion a habit.

"Just…" Katniss pauses, pacing a bit for a few restless moments. When she finally stops she continues, "I think you should go."

I try not to deflate when her eyes fleet over to Gale, and he to her.

"Alright…" I reply a little too quickly, giving rise to a bit of suspicion on their part. I ignore their fixed stares as I turn on my heel and retreat back out of the forest.

It may look like I'm giving up easily, and I know I said I wouldn't, but I have a plan.

As quickly as I can I make it to my house and snag a small sketch book and piece of charcoal. A bit of giddy elation fills me as I rush on back, intent on drawing the two in action. That is to say that I find them. The woods are a foreign place to me, so I could get very lost if I'm not careful. And I think that by now Gale and Katniss have returned to hunting on the assumption that if I wasn't going to return in five minutes, I wasn't going to return at all. So, for all I know they could be long gone. That could be a good and a bad thing.

I am by no means a tracker, but the Games have taught me a bit of stealth. But my artificial leg isn't playing into my favor, messing with my gait and making me clumsy. I'm unused to treading across this type of terrain, and I fear I'm making far too much noise. It doesn't seem to help that I'm trying to walk as slow as possible. I think it's just making it worse.

Deeper I go into the forest, losing all sense of direction after a few minutes of mindless wandering. I should be fine though, because I've been walking pretty much straight. Theoretically, I should be able to get back if I just turn around and walk straight. At least, I hope so.

All the trees look the same to me, making it difficult to have markers. I don't know how Katniss or Gale can navigate through this without getting lost. Like me. Years of practice I suppose.

I wish I was that proficient. I would've been screwed if my Games had been placed in a forest like this one. I don't know the first thing about living off the land. The wheat fields alone were bad enough. Just thinking about the days I spent dehydrated make me shudder.

I stop when I hear a distant rustle. My spirits begin to lift, thinking that it might be Katniss or Gale, and I begin to step towards it when my left foot catches on something. I look down at my feet, squinting for the thing that is obstructing my foot. I make the mistake of stepping forward, pushing against whatever has now snagged my ankle and unwittingly releasing the trigger mechanism.

In a flash I'm hoisted upside down from a tree branch, dangling by my left ankle. My drawing tools fall from hands, disappearing into the grass. I forget about them though, because the fact that I'm hanging by my ankle seems far more important. How and why am I upside down exactly?

I feel so stupid, swinging slightly back forth with all my blood rushing to my head. My only saving grace is that no one is there to see me make a fool of myself.

Well…this has been a nice day. I decide to go into the woods, and end up getting strung up a tree. I can see why I should've just spent my day like I usually do. It would've saved me the trouble of having to try to figure out how I'm supposed to get down from here. But no, I just had to make this day different.

As I begin to figure out how I'm going to get out of this mess, I notice a strange tightness crawl across my thigh, followed by a slow release of pressure. It takes me a couple seconds to decipher this sensation, and when I finally do, it's too late to do anything even if I could.

Gravity works against me rather quickly, freeing me of my prosthetic leg and in extension the trap itself. I fall unceremoniously to the ground, hitting my head on some rocks. I'm winded by the impact and momentarily blinded by the pain. It feels like it takes hours for me to recover, when in actuality it probably only lasts a couple minutes at most.

I'm sitting up, hissing between my teeth as I apply pressure to the back of my head to stop some of the bleeding, when I'm discovered again, this time by Katniss. She comes barreling through the bushes, stopping short when she takes in the scene. She glances to me for looking over then to my dangling leg, her eyes going wide the longer she stares.

Embarrassment fills me the longer she stares at my suspended leg. Judging from the hint of horror that shines in her eyes, she never knew that I was missing my left leg. Maybe knew that I could've lost it during the final confrontation, but not that I actually did. A lot of people in the district are unaware that I'm crippled now.

"Could you…um…" I find it difficult to articulate what I want, and have to gesture to my suspended leg to get across my point. It's a little disorientating watching it sway back and forth while it's unattached to my stump of a left leg. Think of all the psychological training it took to accept the fact that I'm without a left leg that's being undone the longer we both stare at my prosthetic.

Katniss breaks her eyes away, taking the time to decipher my meaning before it dawns her as seconds go by. Her cheeks color a bit with embarrassment as she moves to the trap and extracts the metal limb with nimble fingers. Her own embarrassment doesn't amuse me like I think it would. It only heightens my shame.

As graciously as I can I take back my leg, still coming across like an ungrateful ass when I just snatch it away from her. She doesn't seem to notice or care.

Heavy silence engulfs us as I go about reattaching my prosthetic limb. For once I just want her to go away. That, or start yelling at me, chew me out for returning, anything but this terrible awkwardness! But I can't really blame her. Anyone would be uncomfortable if they found themselves in this situation. Hell, even I'm uncomfortable, and I'm the one who should be used to this sort of thing. I am the one missing a leg after all.

Just as I'm rolling down my frayed pant leg, Katniss finally speaks. "I…I thought they fixed your leg after you won?" The trepidation in her voice frustrates me. What reason does she have to pity me? She doesn't know me, nor do I know her.

I busy myself by attending to my head injury, tentatively prodding the tender spot. It throbs painfully when my fingers brush across it. There's going to be a bump tomorrow.

When I wince from the pain, she wordlessly gets down on her knees beside me, one hand stretching out to the back of my head. She hesitates though, turning her attention to my face to ask, "Can I have a look?"

I shrug, giving her my assent. Her fingers sift through my hair as she tries to locate the injury. It doesn't take long for her to find it, and her face scrunches up with an uncomfortable frown. She retracts her hand and looks at her fingertips, speckled with my blood. She looks a little shaken, and I can't help but laugh through my nose at the ironic implications.

"Katniss Everdeen, the girl who spends most of her time out here hunting, is squeamish when it comes to blood?" I shake my head wistfully, because I would never expect it from someone like her.

She scowls back at me, quickly growing indignant. "Animals are different from people. With animals, it's a natural part of life. But people…it's just different!"

I chuckle and let it drop. I could joke about it, but she's right. People are different when it comes to things like suffering. People hate seeing other people in pain; it's just in our nature. Though several could argue against that fact. Just look at the Hunger Games, and what it forces children to do. What it has forced someone like me to do.

The uncomfortable silence returns with a vengeance until Katniss states offhandedly, "There's going to be a bump there by tomorrow."

I laugh, because I can't hold it back like I did the first time. "Oh, really?" I snicker, "The thought never occurred to me in the slightest."

She senses that I'm teasing her, and only gets hostile. Her eyes flash from cool grey to sharp steel. Her scowl returns without fail, making me laugh even more.

"I hope you have a concussion," she mutters softly, adjusting the strap of her game bag to better sit on her shoulder. Her bow isn't on her like it was last time I realize.

I smile at her. She glares at me. In some absurd way, it kind of nice. I wouldn't trade it for the world, even if I do end up getting a concussion. It'll be worth it.

Carefully I stand, testing the weight on my left leg to see if it'll remain in place. Katniss rises soon after, the motion fluid compared to my jerky movements. She watches silently with arms folded against her chest.

"My leg had been holding on by only a few strands of muscle by the time I won. At least, that's what the doctors had said." I say suddenly, feeling the need to answer her inquiry from earlier. "Apparently I got an infection from a deep cut in my calf that I had gotten from Ace a few days prior to the final confrontation. Add that with the fact that he managed to sever the bone and split it in several shards and splinters with that mace of his, the leg was pretty much unsalvageable."

I glance curiously at Katniss. She's staring down hard at her boots, looking completely uncomfortable.

I want to slap myself. Just because she asked doesn't mean that she wants all the gory detail!

"Sorry," I add quickly. "I shouldn't have said anything about it."

"No, I asked and you gave me an answer." She bites her lower lip, a gesture that looks so foreign on someone like Katniss. It almost looks kind of girly, or as close to girl as she could ever get. Eventually, after much deliberation, she then says, "Madge was my friend."

I smile knowingly to her. "I know. She told me."

Evidently this surprises her, for her eyes grow a fraction wider. She looks a little choked up, but that could just be my imagination.

"She never deserved to die," she whispers almost to herself.

It doesn't take her long to recover, shaking away whatever it was that had temporarily taken ahold of her. Newly brazen, she finally asks me the question I've been waiting to hear ever since she found me again.

"What are you doing here? I thought you left?"

I look down to the ground and find the pad of paper and sliver of charcoal that I had previously discarded. I bend down to pick them up, feeling like I'm about to admit to something that I didn't want her to know. I mean, how am I suppose d to tell the girl I'm in love with that the only reason I'm came back out here was to draw a picture of her against her awareness without sounding like a total creep?

"Came here to draw." I say, which isn't a complete lie. More like a half-truth.

She merely rolls her eyes, probably thinking that it's a stupid reason to be out here.

"You should go before you do something else stupid." She hedges plainly, adjusting her bag as she starts to move away. She stops after a dozen feet, looking over her shoulder with one eyebrow raised. "Are you coming?"

I rush after her, partially relieve that I won't have to find my way out and partially embarrassed because she _knows_ there's no way I'll be able to return to the district without her help. Thankfully I don't have too big of an ego, otherwise I would've made things unnecessarily complicated. Like insist that I can handle finding my way back even when it's obviously clear that that isn't true.

I trust Katniss though, at least trust in the fact that she knows where she's going. The way she occasionally glances at the foliage, as if marking the path in her head, assures me.

"You sure know your way around the forest." I immediately sense the stupidity in the statement, and I wish I could just take it back. Smooth, Mellark, just smooth. You're really good at casual conversation.

She snorts but chooses not to comment on it. I'm kind of glad she doesn't. It would've led to dreadful small talk.

"Is Gale still here?" I ask.

She merely shrugs her shoulders.

"You, uh, ready for the Reaping tomorrow?" God…did I really just ask that? Am I really that desperate to keep speaking with this amazing woman? Do I not have anything else better to talk about other than something as awful as the Reaping? Ugh…

"What kind of question is that?" she haughtily asks. "Is anyone ever ready for the possibility of having their name drawn?"

"I guess I should know, right?" I scratch my chin, to busy myself. "It was a stupid thing to ask."

The awkwardness returns and blankets us like a thick fog. There's no way I can salvage this conversation. Not when it's treaded into such things that are better left unspoken. The only good thing about all of this is that I'm at least talking to her.

The rest of the way we travel in silence. Thankfully we don't have to travel very long, breaking through the tree line almost twenty minutes later. I give a sigh of relief, glad to see a bit of civilization again.

"Thanks," I turn to her and smile, but she's already making her way back to the fence, ignoring my presence and pretending that I no longer exist. Her movements are stiff and her back is ramrod straight after she crawls under the small opening under some of the wire. There's a purpose to her stride, conveying a sense of collectiveness that I'm so used to seeing.

It's almost as if none of this had ever happened. But it did. Katniss, to some extent, had shown concern for me. She could've just left me only she didn't.

It could be that she'd grown anxious anyways if it had been any other person who had decided to go into the woods and ended up getting caught in a trap. Regardless though, it had been me and I caught a glimpse of a side of Katniss many so rarely get to see.

In the woods, she had been herself. As soon as I get back from the Capitol once the Hunger Games are finished, I'm going to try to see that side of her again. The one that doesn't have to hide behind a tough exterior.

I want to get to know Katniss Everdeen.

I want her to get to know me.

* * *

**Author's Note: Please Review! And I swear this time that I'm back to updating once every week. I'm already working on the ninth chapter, just to give you a bit of assurance**


	9. Abraham's Daughter

Ch. 8

I hardly sleep that night, both fearing that I might've sustained a concussion and the fact that the Reaping is only hours away. I try distracting myself from thinking about it by grabbing a random book off a shelf to read. It ends up being a narrative of a victor in one of the earlier Games. Figures.

As dawn begins to lighten the sky, I can't quit fidgeting. My stomach tightens with knots and it feels like I'm going to be sick. The nauseous feeling comes and goes with my riled nerves. I wish I could be anywhere but here at this moment. Why can't yesterday be today?

I go to Haymitch for advice. Even as I'm walking up to the door, I can already tell that this is a bad idea. It's only solidified when he answers the door and I find him to be completely plowed.

"Who iz you?" Haymitch slurs terribly, his putrid breath hitting me right in the face. He doesn't even recognize who I am. Just what I need.

"How can you be drunk on a day like this?" I snap, losing my patience for this man. I need his help, not his funk.

He swings back the bottle he holds in his hands. I snatch it away before the liquor can touch his lips. He gives a shout but I ignore him. Instead, I wheel him around and lead him back inside by pushing on his shoulders. Wild cursing flies out of his mouth as he tries to get back the bottle. At least, I think their curses. It's hard to tell with this indiscernible speech of his.

I'm left spending most of the early morning making sure that Haymitch is ready for the Reaping. The task, as simple as it may seem, takes about an hour and a half to accomplish. I might've been finished with it a lot sooner had Effie not decided to stop by for an impromptu visit. Haymitch gets very distracted when she suddenly shows up, and I can't help but think he's trying to cop a feel. He's just hanging all over her.

"Really, Haymitch?" she trills in total aghast. She shoves him away when he drapes an arm over her small shoulders. "This isn't how you should be conducting yourself, especially on a day as important as this one! Can't you think of anyone else but yourself? What about me, for pity's sake?! Just think of what this will do to my reputation if you come onto that stage drunk!"

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, steadily losing patience for either of their antics. I've got my own problems and I don't need theirs.

Haymitch slurs something that I can't understand, but it gets Effie so riled up that she actually leaves. That lifts a bit of load off my shoulders, and I'm able to somehow coax Haymitch in taking a quick shower. I'm hoping that some of the foul odor that's radiating from his pores will get washed away. I doubt it though. It's impossible to mask the smell of a drunkard. I'll just have to hope for the best and maybe drown him a bottle of cologne. That's _if_ the man actually has any.

I take it upon myself to dictate how long he stays in the shower, imposing into the bathroom after a good amount of time with a bundle of fresh clothes under one arm. I shove them into his hands, not caring if they end up wet, and step out before I have the chance to see anything. Seeing a man naked doesn't make me uncomfortable. Seeing Haymitch naked does. It just something that doesn't need to be seen.

I leave him to dress so that I may do the same. Earlier in the week a silver-lined vest, white dress shirt, coal-black pants, and leather shoes had been sent to me from Portia with a small note reminding me to be strong. I smile in spite of myself as I put on the clothes my stylist has been so gracious to send me. I look forward to seeing her again, even though it'll be in the most undesirable of circumstances.

Before I make the short trip back to Haymitch's house I check the clock. The time for the Reaping is almost upon us all and I have to stop to take a few deep breaths. My nerves are all but shot at this point as I'm unable to avoid the line of thought I've been pushing to the back of my mind for days: who will be the Tributes this year? Will I know either of them? Will one or both of them wind up being a former childhood friend? Will it…

I put an end to that last thought before I have the chance to complete it. I know analyzing the outcome will only make me even more anxious, and drive me to a point of insanity merely by thinking about it. Whatever happens, happens. There's nothing I'll be able to do to change the results of the rapidly approaching proceedings. All I can ensure is that I'll do my damn best to bring one of them home.

I retrieve Haymitch after I get a handle of things, sighing forlornly when I watch my fellow mentor sway and stumble on his way down the porch steps. Why does he have to get drunk today, of all times? He wasn't like this last year, at least, not this hammered. Is the stress of it all steadily becoming too much? I don't want to know.

Until he sobers up, I'm on my own.

"You ready?" I force myself to ask as patiently as I can.

"Shuddap!" he belches, waving a hand rather vigorously when I move to steady him. He scowls, emphasizing the age lines that have set in his face. The expression is definitely more attractive on Katniss's face than his.

I lead the way to the Justice Building and we remain in relative silence. Haymitch makes the mere ten minute journey unreasonably long, tripping over his own feet and easily getting distracted by everything that moves. It takes all the patience and will power in the world to not leave him lying in the dirt. But somehow I manage to pull through, and eventually we make it to our destination, albeit a little late.

Effie is already moving to podium by the time we arrive, her Capitol get up so greatly contrasting with the drab of the district. She's excited, that much is clear, her face beaming brightly to all the children between the ages of 12 and 18 amassed before the stage. Her thrill is left unmatched though, for no one can get themselves to even remotely appear interested, not in the way that the people of the Capitol would have it. The only interest a person has is whether or not their name is going to be drawn. Besides that, nothing else matters.

We sit down in the empty chairs on stage and I stare out into the crowd. I have to put a restraining hand upon Haymitch's shoulder to keep him from getting up when he starts fidgeting in his seat, easily growing bored from the tedium of this annual event. The last thing any of us need is for Haymitch to embarrass the district any further. It's bad enough that he came to the Reaping drunk.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" she greets the audience, blissfully oblivious to the lack of enthusiasm in the young faces of all the children. I know many people are annoyed by the superficiality of the Capitol people—I am too—but Effie Trinket is, in spite of her many faults, a kind woman. She can't help the way she acts; the Capitol made her that way.

"Now is the time to select one courageous young man and woman for the honor of representing District Twelve in the Seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games." A brilliant smile spreads across her lips, unknowingly putting more strain on the tension in the air. "As usual, ladies first."

She's only this enthusiastic because District 12 isn't as pathetic as she had once deemed it to be. It had resulted in a victor after all, just last year. She's likely hoping that the same thing will happen again this year. But, if I want to be honest with myself, I doubt it. Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice.

Everyone, including me, seems to hold their breath as Effie's hand hovers over the bowl filled with paper slips bearing names. She hovers over the lip, trying to decide where to stick her hand until it finally comes to her. Her perfectly pink manicured hand dives in.

This is it. This is the moment of truth, where I will learn whose daughter's and/or sister's life will be placed in my hands.

I sit up a little straighter in my seat when Effie, after an eternity, finally withdraws her hand and takes a moment to look at the name inscribed on the small piece of paper. I can't help but hold my breath in anticipation.

But no amount of prepping can prepare me for the name that gets read.

"Primrose Everdeen."

This must be some kind of cruel joke. Effie's just toying with me, with the audience; even though there's no way that the district's escort has any inclination of my feelings for the older Everdeen girl. That can't be Katniss' sister's name that she's just read. Maybe I heard her wrong. It has to be someone else. Please let it be someone else!

I'm proven wrong when a girl only twelve-years-old with twin blonde braids makes her way numbly out of the crowd, her face ghostly pale with shock. It's only her first Reaping and already her name has been drawn. What were the odds of that happening?

What happens next surprises us all, but on some level, I already knew it was going to happen. The cold weight of dread only gets heavier in my chest waiting to hear her voice ring clear above the hush of the crowd.

"Prim!" a strangled cry sharply raises, drawing all eyes to a girl only sixteen-years-old. Everyone from the district knows who she is, knows that this girl is Primrose Everdeen's older sister. The people around her part wordlessly as she moves to the younger girl whose name had been read, giving her a straight path. "Prim!" she cries again, the notes of distress cracking my heart.

Katniss reaches her sister just as she mounts the steps to the stage, pushing her back behind her. She stands fiercely in front of Prim, as if to protect her from the intangible force trying to take away the one thing that matters to her most. There's only one thing that she can do to ensure Prim's safety and ultimately her life.

"I volunteer!" she gasps breathlessly. She swallows hard, standing straighter to repeat in a much stronger voice, "I volunteer as tribute!"

My mouth hangs open and the shock still hits me hard even though it shouldn't be much of a surprise. Beside me, Haymitch looks up, sitting up a bit from his previously slumped position. The look in his grey eyes is unreadable, but there is a distinct lack of the previous drunken haze that had been there minutes ago. He's clearly alert and interested in the unlikely turn of events.

All eyes are on Katniss as Effie flounders for a moment, overwhelmed by the fact that in all the years of District 12, never once has there been a volunteer. It's simply unheard of. Until now.

Effie turns to the Mayor to momentarily discuss protocol. I tune them out and watch the Everdeen sisters, rising slowly out of my chair. I don't know why I get up, other than maybe to get a better view, but that doesn't seem to be the reason. I don't know what my reason is.

Katniss exchanges a few words with her sister, struggling to extract her when the small girl wraps her thin arms around her. Tears stream down her blotchy cheeks as she cries hysterically, trying to get her older sister to stay. Gale comes unbidden to Katniss's aid, hoisting Prim up into his arms and away from Katniss.

Prim screams. The clear sound of it, the raw devastation, causes me to flinch. Nobody seems to notice besides Haymitch. I ignore his curious stare.

The declaration, the love behind the gesture itself, Prim's unceasing wails, pierces my soul and threatens to shatter it completely.

I must be in Hell.

Tears collect in my eyes as I watch Katniss step up on stage, standing beside Effie to face the entire district. I push this emotion back though, because it needs to be saved for another time. Right now, in this moment, I have to appear strong. That Katniss volunteering doesn't shake me in the slightest. That I'm not in love with Katniss.

"Well…what a surprising turn of events for District Twelve!" Effie trills, growing more and more excited. This will definitely look good for her career. "What's your name?"

The shock of the situation must be finally getting to her, as if she's finally registering the consequences of her noble decision, when she mumbles, "Katniss Everdeen."

"I bet my buttons that that was your sister you volunteered for." Effie states, pointing out the obvious to all of us in District 12. She smiles indulgingly to the crowd while Katniss gapes. "Let's have a big round of applause for our newest tribute!"

No one claps.

Instead, something else unexpected happens. One by one, spreading like wild fire, the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds them out to her. My breath catches in my throat as I immediately recognize the gesture. I've only seen it maybe once in my life, but I know what it means all the same. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means goodbye to someone you love.

It is in this moment that Haymitch chooses to go up to her, probably to congratulate her. I think nothing of it until he throws an arm across her shoulders, leaning heavily onto her, still obviously drunk.

"Look at her. Look at this one!" he hollers. "I like her! Lots of…spunk!" He then moves away from her, glaring into the cameras that are filming the Reaping. "More than you!" he shouts almost tauntingly. "More than you!"

He tries to say more, but he's moved so close to the edge that another step forward has him plummeting off stage.

I want to slap myself in the face over my failed attempt of keeping Haymitch at bay. Despite my efforts, he's still gone to make the district look like a fool.

While the Peacekeepers deal with him and the cameras film every minute of it, I glance back at Katniss, noticing a shudder pass through her as she clenches her fists at her sides. She's also trying so hard to appear strong, for reasons that different from mine. She doesn't want the world to see her while she's incredibly weak.

Effie huffs as she watches Haymitch get whisked away on a stretcher, slightly miffed that he had to go and ruin it. Now she's left with the task of getting everyone's attention back. We're not finished with the Reaping yet.

"Now, it's time to choose our boy tribute!" Just like before, her hand pauses outside of the bowl containing male names as she decides where to grab the deciding slip of paper. Her hand dives in for a second time, retrieving a random slip amongst thousands.

She takes the time to read it before announcing it to the public. But something doesn't seem right. Her brow knits forward a bit and she glances briefly to me. There's a hint of reluctance all about her as she announces the name that has brought her momentary pause.

"Rye Mellark."

An acute horror fills me then as I rip my gaze from Katniss and snap my head over to the crowd. It takes me only a second to spot my brother standing near the back, unaware that his name has been called.

He's smirking at something a friend of his must of said earlier until he notices that everyone has turned their head to look at him. His relaxed posture steadily stiffens, a frown growing on his lips. Someone shoves him forward and he stumbles, almost falling to the ground. Peacekeepers push through everyone to get to him, forcing him to walk to the stage by keeping him surrounded.

Rye glances furtively to the boys, perhaps hoping that one of them will come and volunteer for him just as Katniss did for her sister. But no one does. No one cares for Rye enough to be willing to sacrifice their life for him. Not even me. Our love isn't as strong as Katniss's and Prim's. He proved that last year when he didn't volunteer for me.

Our eyes meet once he's on the stage. They're pleading for help, help that I can't possibly give. I can't hold his gaze and I look to Katniss instead. It surprises me a bit that she's looking back at me with a glint of sympathy in her hard eyes. We both look away from each other quickly, as to make sure that the other doesn't see what we really feel in this moment.

Rye takes his place beside Katniss, now wearing a mask of indifference in an attempt to distance himself from the severity of the situation. The only sign of emotional distress he shows is the way he keeps his jaw clenched.

Effie clears her throat awkwardly, struggling to ignore the fact that she knows that the boy tribute is my brother. She tells them to shake hands.

Rye takes Katniss's hand firmly, giving her the stink eye.

He mutters quietly so that only the people on stage can hear, "So this is what I get for not being noble like you?"

Katniss winces. I'm not sure if it's from his stinging words or the fact that he's crushing her hand.

He stands a head taller than her, with about a hundred pounds more of solid muscle. If it came down to the two of them, and Katniss was without a weapon, Rye could easily bring her down. That scenario, as unlikely as it may seem, frightens me.

What frightens me even more is that the girl that I'm in love with and my own brother are going to be sent into the Arena to fight to the death, with me as their mentor. Only one of them will have the chance to get out.

One of them has to die.

* * *

**Author's Note: I hope you were as surprised of the male tribute being Rye as I was, because man that wasn't originally my plan. Originally, it was going to be Gale, but that seems a little predictable. And then, when I was writing the chapter, I was contemplating who to make the male tribute other than Gale, when it just came to me. **

**Oh, I'm so cruel to Peeta, aren't I?**

**I apologize for the shorter chapter. The upcoming chapters will be longer, I promise. See you all the week after next! (I updated early because I'll be on vacation on Monday.)**


	10. With or Without You

Ch. 9

I went back to my house after the Reaping with the intention of packing. Instead, I ended up demolishing a chair into kindling. It wasn't intentional, nor did I have any prior plans of doing it. It just sort of happened.

The pain, the grief, the horror became too much for me to bear any longer. I got so impossibly angry for reasons that I didn't fully understand that I had to take it out on something, which ended up being the poor chair. It was the first thing I saw when I stepped back inside, so naturally, with my tumultuous emotions, I gravitated towards it.

The piece of furniture weighed hardly anything in my hands and the wood that it was fashioned from was easily pliable. It cracked when I slammed it across the island countertop. But that wasn't good enough for me.

I slammed that unfortunate chair repeatedly across the marble surface until it was barely holding together. Then I flung it against the wall, hitting one of the picture frames—ironically one of my family—and resulting in a spray of splitters and glass.

The tears from before quickly return anew and the strength in my legs finally gives out. I fall to my hands and knees, sobbing brokenly like a pathetic child. A long, mournful howl follows the sounds of my wet sobbing, capturing all the misery I have at this moment, and I lay on my side, holding my face in my hands. Left to wonder what I had done wrong.

Amidst the mixed cacophony of my cries, I do not hear the sound of the front door opening or the sound of footsteps approaching. I don't know how long the person is left standing before they nudge me carefully in the shoulder with their shoe. Finally aware of their presence, I think briefly that it might be Myrina, on some level concerned for my wellbeing. But it can't be her; she was recalled back to the Capitol once I no longer needed her assistance.

I reluctantly look up from my hands, wanting so much for it to be my father checking to see if I'm okay. Imagine my disappointment when I find that it's only Haymitch looking down at me with a slight pucker of his lips, almost like a snarl.

"Trinket told me what happened. What the hell did you do to piss them off?" he asks gruffly, removing his foot from my shoulder slowly.

I'm wondering that myself.

For Prim's name to be drawn only to have Katniss volunteer for her place was only a fluke. There was no calculation on their part, no scheming to ensure that the girl I'm in love with found her way into the Arena. Only one person knows of my crush, and that one person would never betray me, not intentionally. It was only chance that things played out the way that they did. But Rye…he's another story.

His name being drawn was a target towards me. Why though? What did I do wrong to deserve this? What did I do to put my brother's life in jeopardy?

There's only one distinct possibility: the bread.

Could my unrelenting charity have sealed my brother's fate? In ensuring the lives of the people of the Seam, and ultimately lessening their need to have to sign up for tesserae, did I unwittingly condemn my brother to death? It shouldn't have mattered, given that the entire district was ensured a parcel a week for one full year. Only it did.

Another sob peels through my throat, because the likelihood that that's the reason is just too strong. There's no other reason besides chance and even I know that there's no such thing when something like this happens.

Haymitch curses to himself before I feel his hands hook under my armpits. He hoists me up to my feet with little effort, showing me that he's still strong in spite of his paunchy body.

"Get ahold of yourself, kid!" he snaps, "We'll figure something out."

"It isn't as simple as you think!" I retort sharply, unable to stop myself.

Haymitch seems to freeze, a calculating look coming in his bloodshot eyes. He stares at me for a long period of time before finally releasing a sharp exhale slowly from between his teeth. His eyes narrow.

"You've got a thing for that girl who volunteered…" he states slowly, as if saying it slower will make it any easier to understand.

I bow my head, hoping to hide the look of pain that pinches my face at the thought of Katniss being in the Arena with Rye.

Suddenly, Haymitch growls and starts prodding my chest roughly with his finger. "This is your mess, so you better be ready to clean it up. Whoever is more important to you, whoever you _think_ is important to you, remember that you get only one choice. And I'd recommend that you choose wisely."

What is he insinuating at? Has he already decided who we should put all our efforts on?

Of course he has. The answer is obvious. Haymitch may be a drunk, but he's far from stupid.

I can't make this decision as easily as my fellow mentor. And even if it wasn't Katniss or Rye, this kind of decision would still be difficult for me to make. Though not quite like this.

I need time. I need to not really dwell on it. If I pick one of them to win, it'll become abundantly clear to the other tribute, which isn't fair. They should be treated fairly, without any form of bias, which I know will be hard on my part. But if I want them both to have an equal shot at winning, then they both have to be trained the same.

"I'm not about to make a decision like that, Haymitch. I say we split the tributes between us and have them decide who they want to be mentored by. They both deserve a chance."

The man snorts derisively, shaking his head slowly. "You've got a lot to learn about how this stuff works, kid. Sometimes it's just better if you give up on one of them, for their sake and for yours."

His words sting, even if there's a bit of truth to them. But it's something I just can't do. Not with these circumstances.

"Come on," I mumble, moving to the door. "We've got a train to catch and tributes to greet." I've wasted enough time as it is acting like a child throwing a tantrum, I don't have time to pack. I'm sure Portia will have things for me to wear when I get to the Capitol.

"You can tiptoe around this all you want, but you know that, deep down, you're going to have to make a choice."

I don't say anything because he's right.

* * *

I leave Haymitch for a while to stop by the Justice Building to check up on Rye, to see how he's holding up. Peacekeepers direct me to the room he's being held in, not that I really need any assistance. I was brought there myself only a year ago.

My family is already being led out by the time I make it to the room, all of us stopping to stare at each other. My father has his arm around my mother, looking miserable and crestfallen. My mother, on the other hand, looks resolute. It's a look that seems to target me specifically by saying, 'if you could do it, so can he'. Evidently she has more faith in Rye than she ever had with me.

Bannock is the only one who approaches me, looking so desperate that I nearly start crying again. He grips my shoulders tightly as he insists, "You can help him, right? You can do it, Peeta, I know you can. You can bring our brother home."

"I'll try…" I croak, unable to say anything else. Reality hits me hard. If I can't bring my brother home, my family will never want to have anything to do with me. If he dies, I might as well be dead too. Can I live with that? Probably not.

He draws me into his arms, holding me tight as he rests his chin on my shoulder. A shudder passes through him and my shoulder starts to get a little damp. Bannock, my emotional brother, is crying and it's hard not to do the same.

Amy gently pries my brother from off of me, wrapping an arm around his waist to escort him out of the building. She's always been like that, knowing when to show her inner strength and be supportive. I'm glad Bannock has someone like that. I wish I had someone like. Maybe I will, someday. Maybe not. It all depends on one girl, who in all likelihood doesn't want to have anything to do with me, who could _die_.

I'll die if Katniss dies. I'll die if Rye dies. No matter what happens, I'll just…die. There's no relief in this life.

Ace should've killed me. It would've saved me all the pain and suffering that I'm faced with now.

My mother brushes past me without a word or offer of comfort. Not that I would ever think that she would give me, but it's still bothersome. My father has inexplicably disappeared. I didn't see him leave, which is a little disparaging. If anyone should've said something to me, it'd be him.

Trying not to let myself feel too discouraged, I approach the door that my brother is behind. A Peacekeeper reminds me that I have only five minutes of visiting time, but I wave him off. I shouldn't be in there for that long anyway.

I find Rye sitting in the plush loveseat, head tilted back to stare up at the ceiling. He doesn't make a move when I enter the eloquent room and shut the door behind me. He's not even crying, which is more alarming. His eyes are conspicuously clear as he continues to gaze up at some distant point.

I open my mouth to say something, but he beats me to it.

"Go away." He doesn't look at me. I have a feeling that he already knows that it's me.

"How are you?" I ask, even though it's pretty clear how my brother feels at this point. He's stunned. Or resigned. I'd like to think it was the former.

Rye frowns a little. "Pretty good, considering that I'm more than likely going to die in less than a week from now. But hey, that's just me."

His spiteful rebuff doesn't settle well with me. It almost sounds like he's giving up, and for the life of me I just can't let that happen.

"Rye, please…" I beg, stepping forward. He stops me with a scathing look, rising to his feet.

"Karma is a bitch," he spits scornfully. "I'm getting what I deserve. Does that mean I regret all the shit I put you through? No! I still hate you, Peat. Just because I'm a tribute and you're a mentor doesn't make me like you, doesn't make me want to forgive you."

"What did I do?" I shout, fed up with these allusions he keeps from me. "What did I do to piss you off so much that it makes you hate me?"

At this point, we're standing nose to nose, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. Too stubborn to do so, neither of us is willing to step back or break eye contact. It would be a sign of weakness that wouldn't be good to show during a time like this.

For a while it doesn't seem like he'll answer. But then, he finally grits out between clenched teeth, "You lived. She didn't."

I don't have a clue what he means by this until it suddenly clicks in my head.

Rye had fallen for poor Madge Undersee. And because I was alive and she wasn't, he resented me for it. In his eyes, it was my fault. I can't make up for something like that.

Somehow this sudden understanding causes me to take a few steps back, reeling from the proverbial blow. Rye has made clear where his allegiances had lied last year. He probably hadn't spared me a second thought when Madge's name had been called.

Why shouldn't I do the same? After all, the girl I'm in love with is now going into the Arena with my brother. I should just pick Katniss, to save me from all the difficulty that I'm likely to face with Rye's personal vendetta against me.

But…that means they win. And I can't just give up on my brother like that. He's my brother.

"You may have given up on me," I finally say slowly. "But I'm not going to do the same to you."

Rye snorts, disbelieving my claim. I shock us both when I snag a fistful of his shirt and bring him close to me. It takes everything in me to not get absolutely livid with my brother for not taking me seriously.

"I'm not going to send you off to die without a fighting chance!" I growl.

His eyes fill with a strange look that I can't easily decipher before hardening to the usual cobalt blue that often glares at me. He shoves me away roughly with a scowl that could give Katniss a run for her money.

"Cut the crap, Peat, and just go." Rye grumbles, turning his back to me. He moves to the window and braces his hands against the sill, hanging his head like a weary dog that's been defeated. "Give your charity to someone who actually has a fighting chance. That Seam girl is sure to fair a lot better than anyone else in District Twelve could."

"Talk like that will get you killed in there." I protest, getting desperate at this point. If my brother gives up, then there's nothing I can do for him.

Rye sighs, his shoulders sagging further. There's nothing more I'd like to do right about now than to scream in frustration. Maybe punch a wall too.

Why is he acting like this? Doesn't he want to live? I mean, I may be conflicted, but it's not like I'm wishing for his death to make this decision any easier.

"Rye…" I moan almost pleadingly, feeling more and more exasperated as time persists.

"Get out, Peat!" he shouts in frustration.

Fortunate for him, it seems that my visiting time has run out. A Peacekeeper comes in and tries to politely direct me out as politely as possible. If I were anyone else, they would've merely yanked me from the room even if I was putting up a fight. But seeing as how I'm a victor, it goes without being said that I'm above the usual hassle. Nevertheless, I leave without protest. Rye clearly doesn't want me in his presence any longer and I have no inclination of talking to the wall.

Once outside, I'm all alone. I pace back and forth across the hall in spite of myself, running a trembling hand through my hair. My mind races as I try to come up with a plan. There has to be something I can do, something that I just haven't come across yet. A loophole, maybe. There has to be something that'll amend this situation and save me from this torture of having to choose who will live and who will die.

Hopelessness threatens to overtake me for a second time when the door opposite of me opens up and Gale Hawthorne is all but dragged out by a couple of Peacekeepers. Once he's out of the room, he's able to shrug them off with a distasteful curl of his lips, brow furrowed at a sharp angle.

Our eyes meet, and the look of antagonism slackens, but only slightly. He's not heartless enough to not feel sorry for the situation I've been unwittingly placed in. That's probably as far as his sympathy will go however. After all, I'll be mentoring his best friend as well. It's obvious he's come to the conclusion as to where my allegiance will lie.

I wish I was as certain.

His silence speaks volumes, which is more threatening than anything he could possibly say. Before this we had developed something of a mutual respect, if I dare call it that. Vague understanding from being acquaintances might describe it more accurately. Anyway, after today, we might as well not have had any contact with each other for the past year, not that we were anything remotely close to being friends to begin with.

A part of me wants to say something in my defense, but Gale stalks away before I can. It's probably for the best. I don't have the strength to justify myself to someone I don't really need to explain myself to.

My attention turns back to the door that Gale had emerged from, realizing that it's where Katniss is being kept. An overwhelming need to see her consumes me and before I have the chance to stop myself, I've stepped inside.

Her head whips to the door, her eyes wide with evident surprise. In a situation like this, I'd like to fancy she'd rush into my arms, seeking comfort. Then reality returns and reminds me that this is Katniss Everdeen. She'd only stare at me mutely. Kind of like she's doing right now.

I try to say something that doesn't sound stupid or inadequate in my head, but that doesn't seem possible. In such a perverse situation as this, it's likely for the best that I don't say anything at all. She might appreciate it more if I don't.

I stuff my hands in the pockets of my trousers, the knuckles of my right hand brushing against something cold and metallic. I flinch a bit, drawing my eyes away from her to my hand as it extracts the object in question. Uncurling my fingers reveals Madge's pin, the one I've kept for nearly a year. When did I put that there? I don't recall ever grabbing it this morning; then again, I can't recall very much of this morning before the Reaping.

A little ease fills me the longer I gaze at the gold pin. The mockingjay pin has given me some assurance during those initial months, keeping me grounded. It has served me well all this time. I think it's time I give it to someone else though, to do what it has done for me. I don't know if it actually will, but I'd like to hope it will. Either way, I think it's something Madge would want me to do.

I could just as easily give this to Rye, yet something keeps me from simply pocketing it. I had discovered its presence when I was here. That has to mean something. And while Rye may have whatever affections for the deceased girl, Katniss was her friend above all us. It should go to her.

Mind made up, I wordless go to where she's seated, sitting down in the couch that sits nearest to the loveseat she's situated in. All the while we stare at each other, trying to reveal nothing. I can see in the way her body tenses though that she's confused, questioning my presence. I can hardly blame her.

I tilt my palm forward to show her the mockingjay pin. Her eyes glance fleeting at it before returning to my face.

"They let you wear one thing from your district into the Arena. I want you to have this, as your token."

I lost my token sometime back in the Arena. It was a crude bracelet made from worn out strips of leather and thread with my initials sloppily cut into thick band. It was an old birthday gift I got from my parents when I was younger. Its absence doesn't necessary bother me. I'm more concerned about how I lost it as opposed to not actually having it.

She shakes her head obstinately. "I can't—"

"It was Madge's," I cut in. This gives her the pause I was looking for, and without waiting for so much as an answer, I fix the pin to her dress. She doesn't take it off, doesn't fight me, which is good enough for me. It goes without being said that this is what Madge would've wanted, being Katniss's friend and all.

I lean away and we fall back into the awkward silence that has us staring at each other. An immeasurable amount of time passes until she looks away to the window. I follow her gaze, peeved at how un-ominous the sky appears with its optimistic and pleasant shades of light blue. A little warning might've been nice, like a storm cloud or something. The sky is typically supposed to get dark when bad things happen, right? It's like, an expected tone shift. Or am I just mistaking that with something I learned in literature class one year?

Amidst my absurd musings, I notice Katniss turn her head to me out of the corner of my eye. I turn my attention back to her and her eyes lower to her lap. Her hands fidget across the hem of her dress—one that looks rather nice, might I add. Under different circumstances I might've noticed sooner, but under these circumstances it just seems wrong.

"I'm sorry…" she says after what has to be a decade of silence.

I don't have to ponder very hard at what she could be sorry for. She's referring to my brother, and how I now have to mentor him alongside her, probably see him get killed. It's rough stuff.

"I'm sorry, too." And I am, albeit for selfish reasons. I can't deny though how truly selfless and courageous Katniss was.

Her sister's name was called. She stepped in to save her even though it would seal her fate. Not many people are that brave. I'm not that brave. I wish I was.

Before she gets the wrong idea and interprets that I'm sorry for myself and not for her I add, "I promise, Katniss. I'm going to do everything in my power to see that you get home."

She begins to shake her head, skeptical of my vow and rightfully so, but I have to lay her doubts to rest.

"I'll help you as best as I can. Just because you're going to be in there with my brother doesn't mean he gets any special favors." I insist.

"He's your brother, Peeta," she scoffs.

"Yeah, but you're…" I force myself to stop before I can reveal something that'll only regret. Instead of saying 'the love of my life', I say, "You're you."

She snorts, because my answer is ridiculous. And it is, but that's all I say on the matter.

"Don't you trust me?" I ask suddenly, desperate to know the answer. She has to believe that what I'm saying is the truth. I'll treat her fairly, not that she should have much to worry about when it comes to gaining support from at least one of her mentors, seeing as how Haymitch has already chosen her.

But something hinges on how she'll respond. Even if it's evident by her stiff posture and steely stare that she doesn't, not even remotely, I _need_ to know the answer. She _needs_ to say it.

Katniss remains stubbornly quietly though, lowering her gaze to her feet, effectively avoiding the question and my desperation.

We lapse back into the silence that's so suffocating; the kind where you fear the other person can hear how fast your heart is racing. Katniss looks so small amidst it all, so vulnerable as the moment stretches on. She'll drown in it if no one comes to help her.

The only way I know how to save her from this awkwardness without putting her further on edge is to offer my hand in a tentative gesture of comfort. I doubt it'll entice her, but I try all the same.

Her eyes bore into my hand, assessing it critically. Time dredges on as I begin to wonder if I should lower my hand, because clearly she's not going to take a hold of it, when her slender fingers inch to mine carefully. In an achingly slow motion her hand wraps around my own, the calluses at the base of her fingers rubbing roughly against my perfectly smooth skin. It feels nice, soothing almost. I wonder if Katniss feels more at ease.

We remain like that until it's time to go. Peacekeepers try to get me to leave after my allotted visiting time is finished, but I ignore them. What more can they do? They've already wrenched the lives of my brother and the girl I love away from me.

I can tell Katniss finds my stubbornness peculiar just by the way wrinkles form between her brow. She doesn't question it thankfully, which gives me some relief. She's not one for words and for once I'm grateful.

The car ride over to the train station has me alone with Haymitch. Effie, Rye, and Katniss are in a separate car ahead of us. I envy them. They don't have to endure Haymitch's insufferable odor of stale sweat and faint alcohol. I have reason to believe that his odor alone is trying to kill me.

"Okay, if we're going to be working together, I have one stipulation," I say after I can't stand it any further. He grunts, to show he's listening. "You're going to have to cut back on how much you drink, because this," I gesture vaguely to him in a sweeping motion up and down. "has got to stop."

He looks to me as if I've insulted him, which I guess I kind of did. But this is more important than coddling a drunk's ego.

"Now listen here, kid. You're new to this. You don't get to make up the rules." he snaps as he gnashes his teeth together tightly.

"Like hell I do!" I snap, unable to hold much patience for this man today. He's very aggravating to deal with. "I get to make all the calls and all the decisions as to what they will or will not do. I don't care if you've already chosen who you want to win, they both get treated equally!"

Haymitch frowns and puffs out hot air through his nose in a short exhale. "Let's get one thing straight, okay kid? I'm—" he points to himself for further emphasis. "the one in charge of how we're going to run things. And I say that you make up your mind and pick between them, because that's the only choice I'm going to give you. Now, we could play things your way, but I haven't seen one damn reason I should waste my efforts on your brother."

"You were passed out when his name got called!" I cry incredulously. "How could you possibly know his worth?"

"I don't have to know him to know that that girl who volunteered has fire in her eyes. Sure, she may be scared as hell right about now, and might not even realize it, but she's got a spark that says she isn't going to let anything stop her from making it back home. She isn't going to quit. And in all of my years mentoring, in all the kids I've trained to only die, never once have I encountered anything quite like her."

I fall silent, troubled and hurt by his words. I must've been nothing special to Haymitch; who's to say that he had completely given up on me in favor of Madge? The notion seems rather farfetched, given that Madge was no better than me by being merely the Mayor's daughter and a merchant girl to boot, but I can't seem to keep from pondering it. It must've astounded him that I made it as far as I did, and won.

Mistaking my silence to mean that I'm unconvinced, Haymitch continues almost insistently, "No one in their right mind is going to forget what happened here. Unless your brother has something in store that really intrigues the Capitol other than being related to you, I say we've already got our dark horse."

A sigh escapes me and I stare at my hands miserably, unwilling to meet his gaze.

"Why did this have to happen?" I question aloud, more to myself than anything else.

I feel a rough hand rest briefly on my shoulder, removed before I have the time to look back at him. Haymitch pretends that he didn't just try to give me a little counsel, as awkward as it was.

"I know it's rough, believe me. Losing family is never easy. But if it comes down to either healing him or feeding her, you've got to know which one I'm going to pick."

I simply nod, unable to keep this argument going. "This isn't fair…"

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to in order for me to glean what he would say. This is the Hunger Games. Nothing about this is fair.

Haymitch rubs his chin, scratching his cheek idly. "All of this is a popularity contest. If your brother has any bit of your skill of working the crowds and ends up gaining more attention than the girl does, I might end up changing my mind. Though I seriously doubt he will."

I seriously doubt it as well.

"Both of them are going to have a hard time getting people to like them," I chuckle humorlessly. Neither strikes me as the type of person who'll be too interested in what an audience thinks of them.

They'll need my help. There must be something I can do to spice up their desire and make them more interesting. Rye's my brother, that much will already be established and can easily be built off of by emphasizing the familial image, but what about Katniss? What can I do for her?

Thinking about the day I fell hopelessly for her gets, and how easily it was for her to ensnare me with her voice alone, the wheels in my head turning and an idea starts to take form. One that I know she won't like.

In order to appeal to the Capitol citizens and make Katniss Everdeen as desirable as my brother will surely be, I'll have confess my love for the girl I've had a crush on since we were five-years-old and she sang the Valley song. All while on camera, for all of Panem to see.

I hope it's easier than it sounds.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you all for your responses last chapter. I'm so glad it caught you by surprise too! Now I'm in an unfortunate pickle of trying to figure out what to do with Rye. **

**I haven't quite decided on his fate yet. Right now the story can go two ways, ways that aren't ultimately different in the long run for the basic plot I've already planned out but still can have a minor impact on the scenario. I'm leaning more towards one than the other, but I'm not going to spoil you all by telling you what it is. Hopefully I'll come to a decision soon in the upcoming chapters.**


	11. Come Away to the Water

Ch. 10

It's a fight trying to get through the station onto the train. Swarms of reporters press up against the barricades, screaming out questions and straining arms that hold microphones meant to catch my responses. I'm amicable about it, smiling and indulging in a few of their quandaries, but do my best to dance around most of the questions. The reporters tend to focus on the tributes, and I don't really have enough strength to lie about my feelings. I give vague answers about how I feel about being a mentor, especially to my brother.

Word travels fast, it seems.

Thankfully, depending on how one looks at it, Katniss and Rye divert the attention when they step onto the platform. The reporters are drawn to them like locust as they push and shove, trying to get a good shot. Questions are thrown their way, but unlike me, both refuse to answer. Katniss doesn't even look at them, choosing instead to gaze straight forward along the path that Effie is leading them down. Rye, on the other hand, makes his contempt known, glaring hard into the cameras that are pointed at him.

It's a dangerous move, though one that I think the Capitol might actually like. It's rare to get a District 12 tribute to look like they're an actual threat. And with the way his jaw is set and his nostrils are flared, coupled with his brawny physique, my brother looks like a fighter.

This is potentially good for him, but at the same time potentially bad for Katniss. Her indifference will only place more attention onto Rye. His angry spirit is more interesting than her cold shoulder, and as a result more and more cameras are turning away from her to focus on Rye.

We haven't stepped onto the train that'll take us to the Capitol, and already I'm stressing out about this. I need to try and relax. This won't determine their fate; their fate is in my hands and I will have better control of it once we all make it to the Capitol. The real test begins there.

After standing at the doorway of the train for a few last minute shots, we're all eventually allowed to go inside when the photographers start to die down. As soon as the doors snap close, Haymitch wanders off to his usual accommodations. I follow in hot pursuit, privy of keeping up with the man's habits. None of us can afford to have him get as wasted as he did before the Reaping.

Haymitch reels on me just as we make it to a door that leads into the next car. "Would you mind giving me a bit of space, kid? I've already got two kids placed into my care, I don't need a third. So back off!"

"Where are you going?" I question, both of our eyes narrowing the longer we glare at each other.

"To take a nap," he sighs in a patronizing tone. "That kind of helps with a major hangover, in case you didn't know."

"Give me your flask then." I hold out my hand expectantly, gesturing for him to hand it over with the wave of my fingers the longer he eyes my palm with evident disdain.

He digs into his back pocket, grumbling as he hands the object in question over. "Fine, take it, if it makes you feel better. There's plenty more alcohol on this damn train for me to drink anyway."

Mental note: Get rid of the rest of the alcohol before Haymitch has a chance to horde it all away.

I let him go to take his alleged nap, stuffing the metal container into my back pocket as I back track to the main portion of the dining car. Effie, Rye, and Katniss are nowhere to be found. I assume that Effie's showing them their rooms. I guess I'm fine being alone for a while.

I sit down at the table, tossing aside all the etiquette Effie instilled in me last year to slouch forward and rest my head on the table. A sigh escapes my lips, making me feel like a deflated balloon that's been left hanging around longer than it needs to and starts shrinking as time goes by until all the helium and air is gone. I am that balloon, that depressing little nub of processed rubber that sticks around even when the party's over.

The sound of a door sliding open with a _whoosh _finally gets me to lift my head from off the tablecloth that covers dark mahogany wood. It's Effie, who looks slightly miffed. Also, her pink wig is kind of crooked, but I think I'll keep that to myself. I want to see how long it'll take her before she notices.

"I'm sorry Peeta, but that brother of yours is about as unrefined as Haymitch is when it comes to manners! I would think he would've been a lot like you, but clearly the only thing you two share is looks," she rants, plopping down in the seat next to me. She hasn't seemed to notice that she's caught me in a rightful funk, but I listen to her problems attentively anyway. "And you want to know what he did? He slammed the door in my face after I showed him his room! Never, in the four years I've worked as District Twelve's escort, has a tribute ever acted so rude!"

"Yeah…" I sigh, propping my elbow up on the arm of my chair to rest my cheek in my palm. "My brother…he can be a big asshole sometimes. Don't take it personally. He's like that with everyone."

"And let me tell you, the girl isn't any better. She's going to have to learn how to smile if she wants people to like her."

"We'll work on it." I say with a strained smile, knowing that Katniss, and Rye for that matter, have a lot to work on when it comes to people skills.

We spend the next few hours in easy conversation. Haymitch appears briefly, slinking away after we fix him with hard stares as he goes to the liquor cabinet to retrieve a couple bottles. Effie tells me that she's always wanted to dump out all the white liquor and replace it with water. I insist that we do it, because the plan is pure brilliance, but she makes it clear that she doesn't want to deal with an irritable Haymitch. I swear to take full responsibility and eventually she approves the plan. She even helps out when I'm halfway through the bottles. It's certainly the highlight of my day, and I can't wait to see how he'll react. Even if it means getting punched in the face. It'll so be worth it.

Not long after it's time for dinner. Effie excuses herself to inform and retrieve the tributes, who haven't emerged from their rooms since they were first shown to them. I wait at the table quietly, continuously glancing at the doorway that Effie went through to see if they're here yet. Suddenly being alone after being in Effie's company makes me increasingly uncomfortable. Like there's someone watching me and they're breathing down my neck. Being alone and this feeling that accompanies it reminds me of being in the Hunger Games.

I can't freak out. This isn't the time or the place to be having this nervous breakdown or panic attack or whatever the hell it is. I made it out alive, I won. It's over. No more arenas for me. No more blood-lusting tributes out to kill me. I've earned my place back into this world, as cruel as it is. Get it together, Mellark!

Attendants come in and stand at the fringes with silver platters balanced in their hands. They wait with me for the others to arrive, which relieves most of my unprecedented hysteria. And thankfully it isn't long until Effie returns with Katniss and Rye in tow. I greet them with smiles as they take their seats and food is served.

"Where's Haymitch?" Katniss inquires when it becomes evident that the man won't be joining us for dinner.

"Probably taking another nap," says Effie. She must be glad he isn't here, if that quirk at the corner of her lips that she fights is any say on the matter.

The food comes in several courses. Rye stares at his plate though, refusing to take a bite. Effie asks why he's not eating and he chooses to remain silent. It's almost like he's in his own little world, watching as his untouched salad is exchanged for a plate of lamb chops and mashed potatoes. Katniss, meanwhile, has no reservations of trying and eating the food. She takes her time as she eats, which surprises me, given her background. I would think she'd be stuffing her face with all the food that is presented to her on delicate porcelain.

Effie praises her for her manners, saying that the year before last she had a couple of tributes eat everything with their hands like savages. Personally, I think the comment is unnecessary, and maybe Katniss does too, because she finishes the rest of the meal with her hands. I can't help feeling amused when Effie purses her lips tightly together, completely disapproving of the way she's now behaving.

Once the meal is finished and all the plates and glasses have been removed from the table, Effie says brightly, "Time to watch the recaps of all the Reapings!"

Rye snaps out of his self-imposed stupor and growls. He promptly rises from his chair and starts storming away.

"Where are you going?!" questions Effie.

"Like hell I'm going to watch that," he snarls. "Fuck this shit."

Effie gasps, appalled by his derisive speech. "Manners, young man! That is not how you should be speaking to your escort!" she trills with a voice a pitch higher than usual.

Just as the door slides close behind him, he flicks her off. This gets Effie red in the face and certainly ruffles her feathers. She mutters something indignant under her breath and looks to me pointedly. I shake my head ruefully and reluctantly follow her with Katniss at my side. Briefly I look to her when she groans, noticing that her face has gone a little green. I can empathize with her.

"Most of the food is very rich, and eating a lot of it can make you sick." I point out, kind of wishing I had remembered that earlier. I would've said something if I had.

Katniss merely groans again and leaves it at that.

We situate ourselves in another compartment to watch the recap. One by one, it goes through each Reaping with televised commentators. I make sure to pay extra close attention, picking out all the threats that my tributes will face. The Career districts are obvious red flags, but there's one in particular that makes me nervous.

He's a voracious boy from 2 just about roaring for a fight when he lunges to the stage seconds after he volunteers. Katniss and Rye will have to watch out for him in particular, because I don't like how predatory his eyes are. A child born for a moment like this. A child bred to kill.

Cato, the obvious choice for the role of alpha male in the Career Pack.

After the Career districts, there isn't much competition outside of the boy from 11. He's remarkably big and strong looking for someone from the outlying districts. I'll have to make sure not to underestimate him in the future.

My heart goes out to his district partner however. She looks to be about twelve years old, that age where you can't help being short and gangly. She takes the stage with some dignity though, even if there is a slight tremor in her hands. The district escort asks for volunteers. It's no surprise when there isn't any and the question is answered with only the sound of the wind washing across the crowd of sullen onlookers.

Something catches my attention from the corner of my eye and I turn my head to see Katniss staring at the screen mystified. The District 11 girl must remind her of Prim. But, unlike Prim, this girl doesn't have Katniss for a sister who can come swooping in to the rescue. She has to resign herself with having to go into the Arena instead because no one has enough courage—or maybe even enough heart—to spare a twelve-year-old from having to meet her statistically proven demise.

Thinking about the injustice of this is bringing tears to my eyes.

What makes it even more heart wrenching is when the Reaping for District 12 follows soon after. The commentators are seemingly baffled and pleasantly surprised when Katniss volunteers for her sister. It's almost as though they're _excited _about this, which makes me sick to my stomach. How can they can view such a touching display of love and sacrifice and find it entertaining? Can these people be anymore hopeless?

After the reading of my brother's name, one of the commentators asks about whether or not last year's victor's name was Mellark. His partner immediately jumps on the thread of discussion, nodding their head enthusiastically as she goes on to make note of our relationship as brothers. He gets interested and the pair ends the recap by discussing District 12's tributes and how they need to keep an eye on them.

Despite how shitty I feel after having to watch the Reaping for a second time in one day, I'm glad for the attention that my tributes have received. They aren't being immediately written off as easy targets. That's good. It makes my job a little easier, but only by a smidge.

There's still that pesky decision I have to make, one way or another, about which one I will save and which one I will have to let die.

For now, I guess I'll try not to think about it.

With the recaps over, we all bid each other good night, heading our separate ways. I drag out the time it takes me to make it to my room for as long as possible. Unfortunately, it's not even thirty seconds, and I have to swallow up the will to walk across the threshold. The room is as extravagantly equipped as the one I had last year, only this one is a little bigger and more furnished.

I pull over a loveseat to the window, plopping down with an audible huff. I look out into the night and watch it pass by in a colorless blur. Sleep makes my eyes inevitably feel heavy and I try fighting it off by taking a swing from the flask I procured earlier from Haymitch.

The drink is terrible but it'll have to do.

* * *

_I'm walking warily down a flattened path in a field of wheat, wielding a chipped tomahawk as my only weapon. Throaty screams can be heard in the distance, inciting me to pick up my pace. I'm sprinting by the time I make it to the source of the distress. _

_ It's Katniss and Rye, and both grappling in a desperate and bloody match with each other. All of the other tributes from the 73__rd__ and 74__th__ Games watch, the dead intermingled with the living as they stand in a large circle around the pair. _

_Rye's got an arrow stuck in his right eye and Katniss appears to have her right arm broken judging by the way it dangles limply at her side. They're trading vicious blows, circling each other like warring beasts, struggling to overpower the other. Speed fights against strength, a battle whose victor can't easily be determined._

_Forty-five heads turn to look at me, their eyes asking me the question I've been struggling to avoid: Who will I choose to save?_

"_I don't…I can't…" I breathe out as I step back, struggling to release my weapon from my tightly clenched hand._

_Their heads all turn to look the opposite way, pulling my gaze over to see that my madden doppelganger has returned, appearing as furious as ever as he stares back at me with unfeeling blue eyes. He twirls Allison's hatchets in his hands as he advances forward, eyes never leaving mine. It's only the two combatants that seem oblivious to the encroaching presence of my copy, wielding the power of death in each of his hands._

_ I can do nothing but watch as he lifts his hands up in the air away from his sides, taking deliberate steps to my brother and Katniss. My breath catches in my chest as he stops before the pair who in turn pause their fight to see who bothered approaching. _

_We stare into each other's eyes for a time that feels agonizingly slow in its entirety._

_He swings._

_Heads fly._

_I scream. _

* * *

I awoke with a shout, springing out of my chair to stumble into the dresser. My feet tangle and I fall in a sweaty heap to the floor . I scramble away in panic, my mind still caught up in the lingering effects of the nightmare. I almost forget where I am for a second, believing full-heartedly that I'm still running in that field from myself. But I'm reminded of where I really am when the train jerks to a stop, probably to refuel.

For a while I remain on the floor, clutching at my head and struggling desperately to remember how to breathe. I don't go to sleep after that. I can't. Oh God, I just can't.

I can't shake the image of their heads careening through the air that is now seared into my brain.

I fear I'm likely to go insane by the end of all this.

The sound of someone tapping on the wall nearly makes me jump out of my skin. My back rams into the dresser and my head turns to the direction the sound came from. The person taps again, the muffled noise neither belligerent nor insistent. If I had to describe it, I would consider curious and maybe a little concerned with its carefully masked hesitance, but that's just me. I might be reading too much into that dull, quiet echo.

I rise to my feet and move over to the wall, eyeing it with skeptical curiosity. Whose room is next to mine? Did they hear my shout from earlier? Are they wondering what's wrong? Should I respond?

The person taps only once more before falling silent. I'm immediately gripped by a desperate urge to reply to this archaic exchange and I rasp my knuckle quickly against the wall a few times. Then I press an ear against the surface and wait.

My knocking is returned with a few evenly spaced taps. I interpret the measured sound to mean that the person, whoever they are, is trying to reassure me, to calm me down. And it does, oddly enough. I'm probably making it seem more than it actually is, but I can't refute the fact that it's putting me at ease.

"Thank you…" I murmured into the wall, leaning my head against it for a brief second before pushing away and walking back to the loveseat I had previously been occupying.

In spite of the reassurance, I don't dare fall back asleep. I'm still too afraid of the nightmares that are sure to come.

* * *

**Author's Note: I'm so sorry for the delay in updating. Like usual, it's because of school, so I apologize for not having this out in time. I'm currently on break, so I'll try to remedy the updating problem by dedicating more time to writing more chapters ahead of time so that there won't be a huge cape in my typical updating schedule. **

**And thank you all, once again for the favorites, follows, and reviews. Seeing that my story is being read just really makes writing this worthwhile. So thank you, and for those who celebrate Christmas, have a Merry Christmas. **


	12. Girl On Fire

Ch. 11

As soon as the grey light of dawn peaks through the windows, I exit my room and move to the dining car. A few attendants are already there and waiting, attentively inquiring if there is anything that they can get me.

"A cup of hot chocolate would be nice, thank you." I say as I sink into my seat from yesterday, somewhat surprised to see Haymitch already present, munching on a biscuit and sitting across from me.

"Surprised to see you awake."

Haymitch looks up, his bloodshot eyes narrowing dangerously. "You wouldn't happen to be the one who replaced all the white liquor with water, would you boy?" he growls.

"I'm even more surprised that you have to ask—"

As I expected, he throws a punch at me. And because I was expecting it, I lift up my right forearm to block, the counter momentarily stupefying Haymitch. "Didn't think I would try to stop you from hitting me, did you?" I give a smirk to his severe scowl.

"Dammit kid!" he puffs out, slapping his hands down on the tabletop. "You better quit this kind of crap before we make it to the Capitol, because you've got another thing coming if you think I'm not above beating the living snot out of you in front everyone."

"And _you've_ got another thing coming if _you_ think I won't fight back." I retort. "I'm not that same teary-eyed kid who got on this very train a year ago."

Haymitch opens his mouth to say something but gets cut off by the arrival of Effie and Katniss. He gives a disgruntled sigh instead, returning to his meal without another word. Sensing the tension, Effie approaches carefully, glancing between an aggravated Haymitch and sullen me. It doesn't take her long to come to some kind of conclusion.

"Honestly Haymitch, what did you do now?" she questions exasperatedly, sitting down into the chair that is situated between us.

A look of offense grows wide in the old drunk's eyes, his head whipping to look at Effie. "Me? What makes you think I did anything or that it was even my fault!" growls Haymitch. "How do you know it wasn't golden boy over there that didn't do something?"

"Because, Haymitch, dear, it's always you," sighs Effie as she waves over a nearby attendant. "You're the insufferable one, not Peeta."

"Insufferable one my ass," he grumbles under his breath, shooting me a dark look before returning to his meal.

Katniss warily takes a seat to my right, eyeing me curiously. "What happened?" she inquires, eyes swarming with more questions that she doesn't ask.

"Nothing…" I shrug her off, sipping from my mug in order to avoid her questioning eyes. "It was just a little argument between me and Haymitch, you shouldn't worry about it."

She nods idly, watching as food is placed before us along with a few various cups filled with different kinds of drinks. I point to the mug with the rich brown liquid.

"That's hot chocolate." I say casually. "You should try it. It's good."

Her hands cup the lacquered mug, pausing to allow the heat to seep into her palms to warm her hands. She stares down at the swirling liquid, silently debating something to herself before finally getting around to asking, "Was that you, in the next room, screaming last night?"

I fumble with my cup, nearly spilling it across the table cloth. Everyone goes still, three pairs of eyes burning into me as I avoid their various gazes.

I give a breathy laugh, trying to repair my initial reaction with a smile that feels a little too strained to be seen as easygoing. "Was I really screaming?" I asked, turning my attention to Katniss just so that I could avoid looking at Haymitch or Effie.

Watching her nod made my heart sink. I've had plenty of nightmares this past year, and though I've woken up shouting or crying, never once did it occur to me that I might be screaming in the midst of my dreaming.

"I'm sorry," I tried apologizing, returning my eyes to my cup of hot chocolate. "It was…was just a bad dream. Must be from all the stress…"

"Would you like to talk about it?" Effie asks with eyes overfilled with concern.

Rye chooses this exact moment to make an entrance, sparing me the agonizing task of having to relay my god awful horrors. Everyone's attention is diverted to him as he lumbers in, hair tousled and face puffy from sleep. Judging from the rumpled look of the clothes he had had on yesterday, he must've slept in them.

He doesn't say a thing as he takes a seat and nibbles on a pastry. It isn't until he finishes the single pastry does he take notice of the fact that we've all fallen silent. "Don't let me ruin whatever the hell you all were discussing. Continue on with your pointless strategizing in the hopes that at least one of us makes it out of the Arena alive."

I can only sigh, because I don't have the patience to start another argument with my, for lack of a better word, suicidal brother.

"What sort of advice _do_ you have for us?" Katniss asks, looking to Haymitch as she says this. Apparently she'd prefer the wisdom of a drunk as opposed to a newly crowned victor. It makes complete sense. Only I don't get it.

"Here's some advice: Stay alive." Haymitch looks almost dead serious until he bursts out laughing, as if his own words amuse him.

Katniss stiffens in her seat and even Rye has the decency to look put off by his behavior. "That's it?" he asks, almost flabbergasted. "That's all you've got to say on the matter?"

Haymitch snorts. "Make up your mind, kid. Either you care or you don't. You don't get to be both."

"I care when some old drunk is trying to give me some bullshit advice and pass it off as some big secret." Rye so boldly swipes the drink out of Haymitch's hand, the glass shattering on the floor and spilling orange juice surely mixed with whatever booze he has left.

Infuriation swarms the man's features as he regards my brother, eyes squinted and lips puckered. He looks as though he's about to punch him when Katniss snatches up a knife and drives it into the table dangerously close to his hand, stilling whatever action he was about to make. Effie gasps, appalled by the actions of our tributes.

"He's right," says Katniss, glowering dangerously at Haymitch.

Haymitch scrutinizes them both, lazily pulling out the knife embedded in the wood. "Well aren't you both just so brave, breaking my glass and killing this here placemat. Maybe we've got us some fighters this year, don't you think Peeta?"

I glare at him, angered by his evident sarcasm.

Shifting in my chair uncomfortable, I take it upon myself to try and amend the situation. "The key is—"

"You really want to know how to stay alive?" Haymitch interjects, as if I hadn't been starting to say anything. "You get people to like you."

Katniss and Rye stare at him, taken aback by his words and the fact that he appears to be serious this time.

"When you're in the middle of the Games, and you're starving or freezing, some water, a knife, or even some matches can mean the difference between life and death. And those things only come from sponsors." His tired grey eyes shift between them, not looking too impressed. "And to get sponsors, you have to make people like you. And right now, sweetheart, you and Mr. Sunshine aren't off to a real good start."

The car is abruptly cloaked in darkness, causing Katniss and Rye to glance around, momentarily confused by the sudden lack of illumination.

"We're almost there." I point out as I rise from my chair and move to the window, staring at nothing but a black blur that passes by for a few odd something minutes.

Everyone remains quiet even as the car is lit up again with sunlight when the train finally makes it out of the tunnel. Probably because they can't help themselves from not taking a look, Katniss and Rye rush to join me at the window, gazing open-mouthed at the awesome enormity that is the Capitol.

I remember my first time seeing the Capitol, feeling a bit impressed with the tall buildings that seemed to touch the sky and the cars that zoomed sleekly across the roads. Looking at it now just makes me feel sick.

The train starts to slow down and people begin taking notice of us, easily recognizing that this is one of the tribute trains. People point and wave, beaming enthused smiles when I wave back to them as enamored as the newest victor should seem to be.

"You two would do well to learn a thing or two from him," notes Haymitch. "He knew how to play the game well."

I turn my head to look at Katniss and Rye. Judging from the stone cold expressions on their faces, I'd have say that they're hardly impressed. And honestly…neither am I.

* * *

I lead the way to the Remake Center, feeling more and more dread weigh me down with each step I take. Portia greets us along with my old prep team, who swarm me with assurances that they'll make my brother Rye look dazzling. To which my brother tries to growl and pretend that he hadn't heard his name and the word "dazzling" used in the same sentence. Another prep team stands on the fringes, watching us with curious and excited eyes. They must be Katniss's. I don't recognize them from last year's Games.

Portia pulls me into a hug when I'm able to break away from my old prep team. It takes all the willpower I've got left to not break down again and blubber like a child. Instead I hold her tight, though it's difficult to control the trembling that overtakes me. I can only hope that nobody can tell.

"When I heard, I—oh Peeta…" she coos into my ear, sounding just about as distraught as I feel. It comforts me to have someone that cares, unlike some people who shall remain nameless.

"What do I do, Portia?" I whisper, words muffled by her shoulder. "I just…I don't know what to do."

Portia pulls away, hands moving up to hold my face so that our gazes remain even. She composes herself quickly so that when she speaks again her voice isn't as strained as it was before.

"My friend Cinna and I will make them look good, better than any in District Twelve's history. Nobody will be able to outshine District Twelve this year, not when I've got Cinna as my partner. He's…eager to be working for Twelve. He requested to have it after Alder retired."

"He either really good or really stupid to actually request us." I say, because really, who's ever requested to work with the poorest, least successful district? None, I would assume, until this year.

A brilliant smile grows on Portia's face. "He's the best. There's nothing that Cinna can't do. Plus, it kinda helped that I bragged about yah a lot."

"You didn't…" I smirk, somewhat amazed to hear her say that. Then again, I shouldn't underestimate the level of compassion my stylist has. She's truly a remarkable person, to care this much about one person.

Her hands slip away from my face as she laughs. "I did," she nods, still chuckling. "And let me tell yah he's looking forward to actually meeting you in person."

"The feeling is mutual."

We smile to each, both of us calmer than we were initially but still very much afraid. Afraid of what this will do to me by the end of it. And still, in spite the obvious repercussions, we must continue on as if this is just any other normal day. That it isn't the few left for Katniss and my brother that I consider being normal. Even though nothing about this is normal. Not to me it isn't.

Portia turns to the prep teams and has them lead Katniss and Rye over to their individual stations, leaving me with Haymitch. Effie's disappeared, off to do something I presume. Maybe she just doesn't want to be around Haymitch anymore than she has to.

"What happens now?" I ask him, unfamiliar as I am with the duties of being a mentor.

"Follow me," he instructs with the beckoning wave of his hand. "It's time for you to make friends."

A nervous lump settles in my stomach as Haymitch leads me to a common area secluded off to the side away from all the other rooms filled with tributes getting poked and prodded and waxed and a myriad of other things. There some of the mentors reside, sitting back on posh leather couches and laughing at something one of them said. They don't take notice of us until Haymitch clears his throat.

"Everyone, Peeta. Peeta, everyone." Haymitch introduces quickly. "Now have it." He pats my shoulder before lumbering away over to the bar situated in the back.

I'm not left alone for long. Off in my peripheral vision a person leans forward and yanks me back with them, forcing me to sit between them and another person. An arm gets thrown over my shoulders as I realize that I'm sitting in the middle of Finnick Odair and Johanna Mason.

"How kind of you to join us, Mellarky!" Johanna harps, pressing up close against my left side while Finnick slouches forward on my right. "We were worried you'd decide to flake out after your brother's name was reaped."

"Nah…" I shake my head with a breathy exhale through the nose. "You two obviously don't know me well enough like you think you do."

"I told you the kid would show up," Finnick declares as he stretches out a hand to Johanna. "Pay up, Jo."

Johanna pushes away from me, finally, and glares at Finnick, who looks back at her with a smug look on his face. I think it only gets her angrier, but she hands over whatever the payment was nonetheless—which happens to be a folded piece of paper.

"You're stupid," she spits out.

Finnick grins. "And you're beautiful. Want to trade?"

This gets her to storm off completely, moving across the room to sit next to a man in his early thirties. He gives her an amused smile that she acts like she doesn't notice.

"Hey," says Finnick as he removes his arm from my shoulder, his mirthful look slipping into something serious. "I'm sorry that your brother got reaped."

"You don't even know the half of it," I mutter under my breath, thinking that he wouldn't hear me. I'm startled when he does.

"What? There's more to this story than meets the eye?" A devilish grin that I know would get any woman (save maybe Johanna and Katniss) swooning off their feet spreads slowly across his lips. "Don't tell me, the girl tribute and you are a thing."

I know he's only joking, and that his guess isn't meant to be taken seriously, but it's not like I can refute it. It's not completely off-base from the truth. "You're close…" I sigh, sitting forward with elbows resting on my knees. "but try again."

His charismatic grin vanishes faster than I think it possible, a solemn look glowing in his vibrant green eyes.

"Oh…" he mumbles almost stupidly, mouth hanging open slightly. "You mean you…"

"Yeah."

"But does she…"

"Nope."

He gives a long sigh, uncrossing his legs and stretching his arms across the sofa back, sitting with head turned up to the ceiling as if he's contemplating something. He doesn't say anything for a very long time, leaving me to get better acquainted with the other victors.

I get up and move around the room, greeting people and getting names. Nobody receives me as warmly as Finnick and Johanna, but they don't just casually brush me aside. They smile politely—or try to—and pretty much make it obvious that they don't want to deal with the newbie. I guess that's fine. I'm still a kid to all of them, bright-eyed and dazzled by my victory.

If only they could see that I'm not happy with my position.

In the end, I find myself returning to Finnick, who's still mesmerized by the ceiling. He doesn't glance at me as I plunk down beside him. I don't know how much more of this indifference I can take before I find myself wandering away from everyone when Finnick returns to the world. He readjusts his sitting position and lifts his head back up to face me, folding his arms across his broad chest.

"Alright," he says simply, a crooked smirk on his face.

I raise an eyebrow questioningly. "Alright what?"

"You've got my support. I'll help you try to get one of them out."

I can only stare and wonder if he's just pulling my leg.

But his crooked smile bears a look of sincerity, making me believe that Finnick Odair is being nothing but honest. He'll help me, which, truthfully, appalls me a bit. I'm being completely selfish here. He's got tributes of his own that probably deserve every chance at becoming a victor, something that they can't do if they don't have their mentor's full support. Then again, it's not like I begged for his help. He offered, and I sadly feel the need to decline.

"I don't think you should be doing that," I sigh, rubbing my eyes tiredly. "You've got tributes of your own, remember?"

He pushes aside the notion with the dismissal wave of his hand, scoffing. "My tributes aren't all that spectacular this year. They'll be lucky to get even a sponsor. The girl's got potential, but not enough to put a bet on. No, I'm much more interested in your tributes, Mellarky. Which one is yours, by the way?"

"Mine?"

"You know. The one that you'll mentor more closely." He nudges my shoulder suggestively. "It's the girl, isn't it? Kat something."

"Katniss Everdeen." I answer, unable to smother the small smile that quirks at my lips from saying her name. I shake my head, pushing back my feelings. "Haymitch and I haven't really discussed it. He's…not used to having me around."

"Understandable. Haymitch has been flying solo for a long time. I can see why he'd lose himself in alcohol all the time." Finnick looks away suddenly, sitting up a bit straighter. I follow his gaze, noticing that some of the stylists have joined us. It must be getting close to the opening ceremonies.

Finnick pats my knee before he rises to his feet, making a point of stretching slowly when a few of the female stylists walk passed us.

"See yah later, Pee-ta," he says, popping the two syllables of my name sensually. I'm beginning to think the guy oozes sex appeal just for the sheer fun of it and because he can with minimal effort.

I stand once I notice all the other mentors excluding Haymitch begin to leave in preparations for the upcoming ceremonies. I don't spot Portia amongst the crowd of moving bodies. Instead, a man approaches me just as the crowd thins out, walking up to me without a look of doubt in his green eyes.

"You are every bit as I'd imagine you to be, Peeta Mellark." The man looks me up and down, a faintly amused quirk to one corner of his mouth.

"Hello," I greet warily, feeling as though I should know this man. His simple black outfit, normal brown hair color, and metallic gold eyeliner seems like ample enough reason for to remember this one man amongst the outlandish sea of quirkily dressed Capitol citizens.

"I'm Cinna," he introduces, alleviating my confusion. "I suspect Portia has already informed you about me."

"She thinks very highly of you," I respond with a gracious smile. This man hasn't shown me any of his skill and yet his cool demeanor has already got me convinced that he knows what he's doing. "And I trust her judgment. If she believes so full-heartedly in you, then so do I."

Cinna accepts my words with a slow nod and hinting smile. "She never gives herself enough credit when it's due for. I particularly liked what your outfits were trying to achieve last year. They're what inspired this year's outfits."

I don't know how I feel about that.

Madge's stylist Alder had been insistent that we go out completely naked, lathered in black powder to assimilate coal dust. He enthused that because it was his last year working for the games that he felt it was his duty to have his tributes go out in the look that he had patented for District 12. Portia, in her third year of being a stylist without her voice being heard by her snide cohort, had decided that enough was enough and forced him to make a compromise.

The ending result had us in black pants with small, reflective sequin beads that caught the light. Reds and oranges were painted into our hair and the outsides of our arms in a mock imitation of fire, the colors creeping into the black make-up that darkened our skin. We were still naked from the waist up, painted black and dusted in glitter.

I hadn't been particularly bothered by it so much as I was worried for Madge. But she never complained. She kept her head high with an unwavering confidence and unshakable dignity that I wouldn't have expected from the quiet, soft-spoken Mayor's daughter. The only thing that she requested of me was that I shield her after the ceremonies were over, which I did without a second thought. We never talked about our exposure after that.

Perhaps I'm worrying far more than I have to. Alder had been the one to make Madge and I go out with bare torsos, not Portia. Whatever she and Cinna have cooked up for this year will most surely be tasteful. I trust Portia and she trusts Cinna, so I trust him too.

"I look forward to seeing what you've both brought to the table for District Twelve this year."

"Yes, well, surely it will inspire," says Cinna with slight shrug of his shoulders and strange look in his eyes. His face doesn't bare the hinting smile that he had on moments ago. It's grown solemn as he adds, "Portia's also informed me of your dilemma, with the girl and your brother."

My own smile slackens as I hear this, reminded that my task isn't an easy one that I undertake.

"May I be so bold as to make a suggestion?" Cinna asks, voice calm and laced with tones that hint to a caring heart.

"Go ahead."

"I think it would be wise that you change into something that better suits your tributes, so that you all hold the impression that you are united together. That you act as the bridge that connects them. I'm sure it'll create the desired effect you were hoping for."

This man must be a mind reader. That, or a genius.

"You think that'll work?"

"I can only do so much," he informs me with a pointed look. "The rest will be up to you. Do you think you can handle it?"

There's no hesitation in my answer. "Don't worry, I have a plan."

Cinna and I stare at each other for a good amount of time, until eventually he gives a curt nod. "Your outfit should be in your room up in the penthouse by now. I'll be with Katniss if you should need me, and Portia shall be with Rye." He begins walking away, throwing over his shoulder, "People should never underestimate the strength of your love and devotion. They'd certainly view you as something more than what you appear to be."

"And what is it that don't I appear to be?"

I can hear the smile in his voice as he says simply, "A threat."

* * *

I don't think I've worn red before.

Portia has always dressed me in light colors that complimented my eyes. Typical colors like blues, greys, whites, and the occasional black. And back before all of this, the people of the district could never afford such luscious dyes, settling with neutral colors more often than not. This time, however, I'm to wear a vermillion red button down with a gold vest, black slacks, and sleek overcoat tailored perfectly to fit my body.

It's almost time for the ceremonies to begin. I return to the common area, finding Haymitch still there, this time sitting beside his friend from District 11. They both rise to their feet when I join them, looking mildly intoxicated but lucid enough to be aware of what's going on.

"Fancy threads," Haymitch comments, fingering the collar of my shirt with vague interest. "The color suits you." The mocking lilt of his voice is enough to remind me that I have worn red before: blood.

I swat his hand away, rolling my eyes at his jabbing remark. "What do we do now? See the tributes off for the parade?"

Chaff throws his good arm over my shoulder, leaning heavily into me. "Nah, we don't do that, Peat. It gets too harry down there, with all those people running around and the horses. We wait and watch just like the rest of them." He turns to look at Haymitch. "The kids are always so eager, aren't they 'Mitch?"

"Yeah, always still wet behind the ears when they first come out. But this one will learn quickly."

"Leave the poor boy alone, you two," a third voice says, drawing all of our attentions to the woman dressed in a blue and brown tunic and white leggings who strides in, amber eyes narrowed at the two older men. "He has enough to worry about as it is. He doesn't need you two harping on him."

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Seeder." I nod to her and she nods back.

"The pleasure is all mine, sweet boy." There's a distinct glimmer of pity that shines through her eyes after she says this. I act like I don't notice. "Care to escort me to District Eleven and Twelve's private viewing suite?"

She doesn't give me time to answer as she snakes an arm through mine and gently pries me away from Chaff, causing him to stumble from my absence of support.

"Sure," I murmur, voice dropping to a low whisper, "but I, uh, don't know where that is."

Seeder chuckles, a sound that is warm and relaxing from the back of her throat. She pats my hand endearingly. "I didn't expect you to. I'm just trying to get you away from those two knuckleheads."

This makes me chuckle in turn, and I allow her to lead the way to where we'll be watching the tribute parade, aware of the distant footfalls of Haymitch and Chaff following after us.

After walking through a few empty passage ways and taking an elevator, we all make it to the suite. The room is completely open on one side, filtering in the raucous roar of the people crowding the vacant roadway from down below. It bears three rows of chairs in sets of four, allowing for the opportunity for more people to come and join us. Across the way, on the opposite side of the street, the other mentors from 1 to 6 already reside in their suites, waiting for things to commence with looks of boredom.

I take a seat in the front row at the end beside Seeder while Haymitch and Chaff situated themselves in the row behind us. Both look on as they hold a soft discussion with each other in tones that I'm unable to catch. Seeder seems to be able to hear what they're talking about judging from with the slight turn of her head in their direction, listening in unobtrusively.

"What are they talking about?" I ask her quietly, hoping neither hears me.

"Things that do not concern you at the present moment."

I don't get the chance to question her further about it, for the opening music is blasted throughout the street, signaling the beginning of the ceremonies. The screens situated all around the street flicker to life, projecting the faces of the two tributes from District 1 who start out the parade.

The noise of the crowd swells with their arrival, never quite abated from that point on. I lean forward, watching as the first chariot draws closer to where we all reside above the people. Too focused on the procession that is happening several feet down, I don't take notice of the trickling arrival of the stylists until I feel a hand squeeze my shoulder and I look back to see Portia now sitting behind me.

"Prepare to be amazed," says Portia with a brilliant smile. Beside her, Cinna nods, his cool demeanor radiating a quiet confidence that assures me just as much as Portia's words and smile do.

I look forward and wait with a steady growth of gnawing anticipation for the District 12 chariot to make its debut. District 10 has just passed us and I feel a steady growth of interest within the suite now that all that remains are the tributes from District 11 and 12.

We all rise at different intervals at the arrival of our tributes. Little Rue waves animatedly to everyone with a smile on her face, earning a few shout outs for her district home. Thresh stands towering beside her with a severe look on his face, refusing to look anywhere but forward as the auburn stallions lead their chariot cart forward.

A shocked chorus of gasps and cries ripples through the crowds suddenly, causing us all to pay special attention to the final chariot that draws near. I almost rub my eyes in my disbelief at the sight I see, a gasp of my own tumbling unrestrained from my lips.

It's Katniss and Rye. They're on fire.

From the way neither of them react to having their headdresses and capes set aflame, the fire must be something that Portia and Cinna took the painstaking time to create. A cleverly done illusion of some sort.

The crowd goes ballistic. Their cheering swells to a higher pitch, screaming out their names in hopes of garnering their attention. Katniss bears an indulging smile as she looks back and forth, waving out to the people. Rye is unable to help himself, allowing himself to smirk as his eyes dance around, not as hard as they were this morning. Even he isn't immune to the rush of adrenaline induced excitement that comes from hearing the crowd of bizarrely attired Capitol citizens chant your name or the heart pounding beat of the music.

Someone in the crowd throws out a rose, one that Katniss deftly catches. She makes a show of sniffing it, soon blowing out a kiss off in the direction in which it came. It's when she does this that I notice that she's holding onto Rye's hand. The sight of it confuses me; is there more meaning behind the simple gesture other than to make sure neither of them topples out?

Then I remember why it is I'm dressed in red and gold.

We're all united and we're all on fire.

* * *

**Author's Note: I always thought it was funny that only Katniss got the title of Girl on Fire, and Peeta was never called Boy on Fire. I understand why the first has a better ring to it, but come on! I guess being Boy with the Bread has to be enough, given that it holds a deeper significance than its literal meaning.**

**I used one line from the movie from Haymitch, the survival one. I enjoyed that particular line, so I felt it appropriate to use it.**

**I'm in the process of writing two one-shots, so that's why this chapter came out later than expected. Please be on the lookout for them in the near future.**


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